All pinheads must die

P
inheads! Yuck!
It was an angry mob. I’m not sure what the marksmen were so mad about, but that choler was contagious. I knew what got under my skin about the whole affair. It had hung around since childhood. My hurt festered into an emotional pimple that needed to be popped. But I had only my camera — no gun. However, I found myself out at the Weston County Sportsman’s Club. The group was shouting insults and calling the pinheads names, like ‘pinhead.’ I know I called one pinhead at the top of my lungs. “Hey, pinhead,” I yelled, “I hope you get shot!” It felt great. And the mob were armed with .22 pistols. Unfortunately, I was unarmed. I had no voice in the matter, except for calling out “pinhead” whenever I got the chance.
Of course, I’m talking about the notorious bowling pin shoot. It is right up there with the hanging of Diamond Slim as a defining moment in Newcastle. Ask anybody,
and they’ll tell you those pinheads deserve it! I agree. I hate ’em. Now before you start calling me a bowling
pin bigot, let me explain.
As a child, the church I grew up in often had youth group outings. I loved the swim parties, always with a barbecue of hotdogs or hamburgers, or both! Chips and soda and sometimes homemade ice cream were also there.
But, it was also a bratty puberty-driven kids’ paradise visually. Even though it was a church function, it was also the 1970s, so the bikini was trendy, thank God! Much of the development of my attraction to the female form was developed during those parties. And I could show off in front of the girls! It was heaven, and I was free to be me! In front of the girls, no less! Awesome!
I did backflips and a double rotation off the diving boards. Thinking back on it now, I don’t think that really impressed many of the girls. Because I also loved to dive-bomb right next to them, scaring them and splashing water everywhere. A 12-year-old doesn’t think about these things, but I’m sure some of those girls got really annoyed at me. I was a big-time showoff. In some ways, I still am. Those who know me will agree with that. It may surprise them to realize that I am tame about it now. Don’t you wish you knew me back then? I was a pretentious, self-absorbed, insecure brat, always in need of verification. But I’ve grown up since then. I am now a pretentious, self-absorbed, insecure bore, still in need of verification.
It’s no wonder that I hated the youth group trips to McHenry Bowl. I hate bowling lanes. The so-called sport has in it for me. Here’s how.
I would put my fingers in that 1,500-pound ball. After it ripped my thumb off my hand as I sent it down the lane, I’m sure the girls’ impression of me was jilted.
And then those pinheads would get involved. Ten bowling pins magically diverted my ball into the gutter by sheer mental force or some demonic sorcery over and over again! I was going to knock down a pin come high or hell water … or something like that. But NOOOOO! At least not in my own lane! Gutter ball after gutter ball would ensue. I swear I saw them jumping up and down as a group a couple of times. My ball bounced into the next lane, where I caused a strike for Renee or Mark. And the laughter! Yeah, I was looking so hot in front of the girls! Stupid pinheads!
You can imagine what I looked like. I don’t think I ever broke 100 in my life. And you can’t show off and try to impress anyone with a gutter ball. Did I say stupid pinhead? Well, it’s so appropriate that those two words deserve their own paragraph.
Stupid pinheads!
I have never bowled as an adult. Almost as much as rap music, I hate bowling. I hate the sound, the smells, even the word.
And I finally found a group of men and women who apparently feel the
same way. Shot after shot, these marksmen would hit bowling pins, and they would fall off the tables. But were they done? Oh, no! They would resuscitate the pinheads and kill them again, over and over, and over. That’s why they were using .22s. My 9 mm would have exploded those evil pinheads. A .22 only made little holes, so you could reshoot those buggers. These men became my heroes, and they meant business and were out for splinters.
It was delectable! After all, pinheads must die!