This last weekend, I went to a friend’s bachelor party. One
thing lead to another, as they are wont to do, and, well, long story short, I
ended up in the ShootPaul warehouse wearing an over-sized Elvis head, a
T-shirt, some shorts stuffed with T-shirts and flip-flops.
And I got shot. A lot. And it stung really, really* badly.
Let me put it this way: you know when you’re walking into a cold
lake to go swimming? And sharp pebbles stab you with every precious step? And
you tense up whenever the bracing water creeps up another inch? That sharp
intake of breath that’s accompanied by a barely audible, “ah-HA-ha”?
It’s like that the whole time.
Am I complaining? No. Am I whining? No. Am I hoping that a
sexy nurse with a satchel full of salves** is reading this? Possibly.
But I do have some newfound respect (and concern) for the
boys at ShootPaul. Am I their archenemy? I should be so lucky. No, I’m just a
man with some bruises, a website and a dream of doing it all again soon.
*Did I just invent the “really” scale? Yes. It works like
this: one really, actually means “really”. Two uses of “really” back-to-back
means a speaker is trying to make a point while also trying to curry sympathy.
Three or more uses of “really” means a speaker is a drama queen and loses
credibility in an amount that’s inversely proportional to the number of times
they mention “really”. No really.
**Did I just invent a new band name? Yes. Satchel of Salves.
