Balderdash!
Balderdash is a word. It is also a game. A game that lasts a very long time, longer even than Monopoly. It was fun for a while. Until everyone suddenly became very good at balderdashery, or whatever you call it. It basically involves deducing (e.g. guessing) the truth from a selection of fabrications, along with a lot of giggling, snorting, and snickering into the wee hours of the night. After approximately 348 hours of playing this game, you get to be a pretty good *ahem* fabricator.
The game is played thusly. The "Dasher" reads forth an acronym or a name or whatever, something like "The acronym F.S.O.". Everyone crowded around the
Strangely, the fun of the game is not in winning, but in listening to everyone else's retarded responses. My wife and all of her sisters cackled uproariously at each reading. I was having fun just watching them roll around in their seats.
Unfortunately, the definition that will remain in infamy was mine, for the unidentified acronym F.S.O. What in the world could F.S.O. stand for? Why, Flaming Sorority Ostriches, of course. When my response was read you could tell by the shocked expressions and sudden quietness in the room that everyone immediately knew no one but yours truly could have concocted such a bizarre and twisted meaning. Heh. And Har.
Volleyball/Kickball
We were a pretty pitiful bunch of wannabe-athletes. I wisely refrained from trying any daring-do stunts when the ball came my way, unlike Cornel and William who soared through the air like a man on the flying trapeze, but not with the greatest of ease, unless you count the way they came down hard like a brick.
Matthew's House
Matt, Mikey and Me all went to Matt's house. Matt and Mikey cleaned their guns. Matt gave me a pellet gun to shoot. I wanted to get a bull's eye, so I shot and shot and shot until I did. Then Matt, Mikey and Me all went inside and watched a film called The Quick and the Dead, about strange goings on in Pentecostal churches. Which disturbed us all. Very much.
Sunday Morning
By Sunday morning I had a pretty good case of whatever cold/flu combo had befallen me earlier in the week. I decided to start popping cough drops to assist with eliminating the notorious back of the throat tickle. Yes, the tickle that brings on a spasm of hacking and coughing that makes everyone around you wonder if they should put you in quarantine.
Unfortunately, I'm, er... how shall we say, mildly allergic to lots of cough drops. Or something. That is, 4 or 5 cough drops in a row will send me packin' to La Buda (Romanian slang for the facilities) faster than Dr. Schulz. Being that there were 8 million people in the house that morning, I was having trouble finding a vacant Buda... up the stairs, down the stairs, wait a few minutes while rubbing hands together, up again. Finally, a vacancy! KA-BLOOM!
I tried to be as nonchalant as possible while exiting. Heh, nice day, eh what, and all that? A few minutes later someone ventured into the bathroom unawares. Quickly realizing what had happened, said person lit a bonfire of matches to, I guess, cover the eu de Bob with something equally offensive but less "septic". As people walked through the room several conversations blossomed that went a little something like this:
Person: "Is someone lighting matches?"
Dorel: "Haha, Daniela lit a bunch of matches to cover up the smell from the bathroom."
Me:
Person: Eeww. Hahahahaha. Gross. Hahahahaha.
Of course the situation called for a hearty laugh and a ripe remark, but I was doing all I could to keep from bursting into a coughing spasm, which could very well have been disastrous considering the unstable state of my intestinal tract - if ya know whut I mean. Sorry for that mental picture, but I feel that blog posts are best when I write straight from the gut... er, heart. So... yeah.
Then we went to church.
Which I enjoyed thoroughly by the way, despite the fact that I was not, shall we say, "comfortable" chugging cough drops and... stuff like that right thar. Despite my circumstances, I think Bro. Matthew preached an incredibly dandy fine morsel of a sermon, right on the tale of the taped recording of The Indictment that we listened to Wednesday night. Here is a picture of the sermon. It was good. And so was...Krispy Kreme
Before all the fellers got married off, we used to make the occasional trip down to the Mobile Krispy Kreme, which is the only Krispy Kreme I know of that has a viewing area where you can actually see the donuts going through the "assembly line". We made several trips this year. It's funny how all the guys who used to be very reserved about eating donuts, but are now happily married, ate more donuts than an elephant could. Well hey, $5/dozen if you buy more than one - which is what we did, heh.
The Trip Home
...was way too long. We left on Sunday along with 3,482,584 other people traveling from Mobile to Atlanta. At one rest stop I, a personage of the male persuasion, actually had to wait in line, albeit with much tap-tap-tapping of my foot and glancing at my watch. We didn't get home until late, and since by then I was really starting to get sick, I was super glad to be home.
But now I'm starting to miss everyone. God is good to have given me in-laws as good as I have. That's a very rare thing. Almost as rare as Flaming Sorority Ostriches.
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2 comments:
About Krispy Kreme-- on our way home from our Thanksgiving, we happened upon one at the Mall of GA exit. Guess what, it also has a donut assembly line that you can watch!
No! And hurray!
That's still about 30 minutes away, but better than nothing I guess. :-)
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