Yesterday was, as most of you good non-Pagan's know, Easter.  Like most holidays, Easter is a day to spend time with your loved ones.  A day to celebrate Jesus' love.  A day to reflect on what good deed we all can perform, in Christ-like fashion, to improve the lives of those around us.  And it's a day to go to your local bar, get shit-faced, act obnoxious towards a random woman, and nearly get into a drunken fight.

Apparently.

This is a story of how I almost got into my very first alcohol induced bar fight.  Only I hadn't been drinking.  And it wasn't really in a bar, but rather a bowling alley.  On Easter Sunday.  In the middle of the afternoon.

You may wonder why I was in a bowling alley on Easter Sunday.  Um…I was bowling.  Duh.  This leads to the question of why I would be bowling on this all important day of Our Savior, while everyone else is at church, or coloring Easter eggs, or biting the heads off chocolate bunnies, or all the other stuff it says you're supposed to be doing on Easter in the Bible.  Okay…I'm not terribly religious.  But honestly, I can't think of a better way to recognize Jesus' death and resurrection than by chucking a 15-pound steel ball down a narrow, wooden path and into a mass of tightly grouped, curvey-cone shaped objects over and over again.

Think about it.

So I'm a bowling with a pair of my female friends, whom I will call Meggan and Dani because that's totally their real names.  Why am I using their real names?  Because fuck them, that's why…you hang out with me you might get written about later.  Deal with it.

Hopefully, they're not reading this.

So we're bowling.  As Meggan is up at the lane doing her thing, a young gentleman comes in from the bar and approaches Dani and me at the table.  I won't use this young gentleman's real name, even though he gave it to us about three dozen times, because during the course of this encounter we discovered that this young man is the Extremely-Important-Regional-Something-or-Other-Manager at Ashley Furniture Company.  And I just wouldn't feel right exposing as a jackass in this blog such a very important person.  It wouldn't be good for the community.  So for convenience sake, let's just refer to this young man in the way that I imagine his mother refers to him, and call him Some Fucking Dick.

So Some Fucking Dick (or, SFD, for short) approaches us while Meggan is taking her turn, and says, "Hey, can I borrow your friend for a moment?"  He nods his head toward Meggan.

Now, this statement immediately sets off warning signals in my mind, because I'm pretty sure no positive event has ever started with the statement, "Hey, can I borrow your friend for a moment?"  But, I'm not Meggan's fucking mommy, so do I really care?  I'm not sure yet.

Dani and I look at each other.  "Uh…"

SFD looks at me now.  "Oh, dude, are you her boyfriend?"

I'm not, but I'm reasonably sure I can end this little encounter right now by saying yes.  The problem: I'm a really bad liar, particularly in a situation where I'm not really sure it's necessary.  This guy seems harmless so far, so…

"No," I reply.

"Awesome."  Meggan has come back by now, and now SFD is explaining the situation to her.  I'm only half listening, but what I gather is that SFD has "bet" his friends he can't get an attractive girl to come do a shot in the bar with him, and he's trying to talk her into joining him in the bar so he'll win the bet.  No mention is made of why he wouldn't just bet his friends he couldn't get an attractive guy to come into the bar with him.  He'd win that one easy, because I could use a shot at right about this point.

Dani and I bowl while SFD continues to pester the clearly unenthusiastic Meggan.  At this point I'm wishing I'd jumped on the boyfriend story, and I'm wondering if I should be doing something about this, and what that something should be, when it gets back to Meggan's turn to bowl.

Meggan, who probably has much more experience in these situations than I do and, it also should be noted, is way cleverer than I am, uses her turn to come up with a very ingenious plan.  She offers to agree to have a drink with SFD…if he can throw a strike.  Genius.  This guy is clearly so plastered he'll be lucky if he can keep the ball in the building, much less hit ten pins thirty yards away.  SFD agrees, and as expected he tosses a ball that flies almost immediately into the gutter.

(In fairness, I should note here that I also was throwing balls that went immediately into the gutter.  But that's only because I was using a ball that was much too heavy for me.  Also, my wrist was sore from driving.  Also, my shoes were slightly too tight.  Also, I suck at bowling.)

So, SFD didn't get a strike.  We win, right?  He tips his hat, says a fond farewell, and leaves us in peace.  Or not.  Because as I go to take my turn again, SFD is still all over Meggan, and it is clear from the way she is sitting as far back in her chair as a chair can possibly be sat in, that she's had enough.  And it's at this point that some weird, seldom used guy-part of my brain tells me that, as the only male in our group, it's my responsibility to put an end to this.  Ridiculous?  Of course.

I did it anyway.

I tap SFD on the shoulder.  "Hey, buddy, I changed my mind.  I'm her boyfriend."

SFD, with a stunned expression, looks back and forth from Meggan to me.  "You're lying."

"No."

"Your boyfriend?" he asks Meggan.

Meggan nods.  I nod.  Dani nods.  The fucking guy handing out the God-damn bowling shoes nods.

"You're lying to me," says SFD.

"Okay," I say, "let's take a vote.  Everyone here who says I'm Meggan's boyfriend…raise your hand."  Meggan, Dani, and I all raise our hands.  "Three to one, buddy.  We got you out-voted."

SFD is still clearly skeptical, and what follows is a rambling sort of "conversation" during which he introduces himself about eighteen times, apologizes to us about thirteen times, ogles Meggan's breasts about eleven times, and explains his VIP status at Ashley Furniture…uh…once.  But once is enough.

"Okay," I finally interrupt SFD, "I hate to tell you this, but I'm this girl's boyfriend, and I'm kind of the jealous type."  (Interesting side note on this line…I managed to squeeze three lies into that last sentence.  I'm NOT the jealous type…she's NOT my girlfriend…and I DON'T hate to tell him that.  A new record for me.)

Something absolutely fascinating happens at this point.  It's something I've read about, and even heard about from other people.  But I've never experienced it first hand, until now.  What happens is, SFD turns slightly to me and says, "I don't really care."  He doesn't raise his voice or say this in even a remotely threatening manner.  He doesn't straighten up, or even face me fully.  He doesn't clench his fists.  He and I are both completely relaxed.  And despite all this, I can sense to the very core of my enzymes at this very moment that SFD desperately, desperately, desperately wants to kick my ass right then and there, and is giving serious thought to doing just that.  Seriously…I just knew it.  It was like a weird guy, hormonal, chemical messaging system.  Bizarre.

Now at this point two thoughts shoot through my head in an instant.  One: I'm about to get into my first bar fight…

In a bowling alley…

At 2 pm…

On Easter Sunday…

This type of stuff only happens to me.

My second though is analyzing what I plan to do if SFD does decide to attack me.  Of course, the Gandhi-loving, violence-is-never-the-answer, peacenik, logical side of my brain would LOVE to believe that I would have calmly stepped back, waited for someone else to break up the fight or for SFD to drunkenly slip and bash his own head on the edge of the ball polisher, then later I would sue SFD for every penny he has and use the money to buy a solid gold Cadillac that I would then "ghost ride the whip" down Main Street.

Of course, the realistic side of my brain realized immediately that, as an often bullied and abused youth, I have a very low tolerance for physical violence against me or people I care about, and if this prick touches me it is going to end pointlessly, drearily, and inevitably in a physical altercation that will most likely end with A) me having my ass kicked; B) SFD being seriously injured, because in my rage I'm positive I would not stop kicking, punching, gouging, and throwing until he had either broken something or lost a substantial amount of blood; and C) me ending up in jail with a 250-pound, ex-bodybuilder turned car thief named Biff spooning me in our shared bunk while I wrote a letter to my mom entitled, "THE BEST EASTER EVER!"

None of that happened.

Instead, the moment passed, and SFD continued with a little more drunken bantering, until eventually he was vanquished by Meggan who, once again showing she had a much better command of the situation than I did, got rid of the unwanted intrusion simply by being so obviously bored and uninterested in him that he slunk away.

Why didn't I think of that?

And now, because no drunken holiday encounter is complete without some sort of life lesson, we need to see what Tim has learned from this experience.

Um…

Oh, okay, I've got one.

I'm spending next Easter at the strip club.  You know…where it's safe.