I shouldn’t be here today. I should have just mailed in that little regrets card and sent along a gift.
What the hell was I thinking? A baby shower isn’t my scene. If I didn’t know it before, that’s become abundantly clear in the last five minutes.
Exhibit A is my star goalie, who’s currently blindfolded and trying to determine the dirty diapers from the clean ones using only his sense of smell. Apparently, a few select diapers have been sprayed with something called fart spray from the gag store.
So far, I haven’t ventured into the living room where the games are being played, preferring to stick close to the kitchen where there’s good, normal things, like beer. And no fart spray. I’m not normally a big drinker, but based on the fact that two of my players just chest-bumped over their
