I’ve been doing some extensive research here at The Morning Laboratory recently (I sat at a bar for about 20 minutes and hammered down a drink) and have come to a very profound conclusion: All girls love skee ball.

And other dumb things.

It’s because they’re good at it.

But wait, this just in: skee ball is not something to actually be good at. Can you lob a round object toward fucking anything? Congratulations you’re a skee ball fucking master.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I mean you can be good at other things. You’re a strong, independent woman, show the world your talents. You’re probably a great pianist or cellist or mother or aunt or writer or chef or just an ornamental bitch whose only talent is being pretty or maybe you’re really fit and strong. I mean unless there’s something heavy to lift and there’s a man around to do it. But skee ball? Not the world’s greatest claim to fame.

These skee ball loving bitches are the same women who train their dogs poorly then yell at that little misbehaved asshole, “Oh my god stop that! Rex? Stop that! Oh my god why’s he doing that? I said stop! Oh my god he’s so cute! Look at his little face!” You get the idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look, ladies, I know it’s your sport of choice but it’s not a real sport. It’s about as advanced as tossing an apple core in the trash. Oh you missed and now have to bend down to pick it up? Shocking.

It’s freaking skee ball. Small children can master it which makes you as much of an expert as someone who still occasionally and semi-acceptably shits their pants. Don’t you think perhaps it’s time to set your goals a little higher?

It’s not like it’s fucking basketball or football or one of those other athletic events people waste an exorbitant amount of goddamn time watching on TV. It’s not even anything remotely equivalent. There’s no running involved. There’s no jumping involved. Well, except for jumping in excitement over the site of those dumb fucking tickets spewing out of that tiny slot just waiting to be redeemed for extra crappy brightly colored plastic prizes that should really just be shoved directly into a fucking landfill. Rainbow stuffed animals and fake sheriff badges are hardly excitement worthy prizes for a grown fucking woman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let’s be honest, it’s really just an excuse to bend over so your date can stare straight down the V neck of your tight t-shirt and imagine tossing his own balls down there. Little tip here ladies, he doesn’t give a fuck how good you are at skee ball. No one does. He’s just hoping a) he gets laid later and b) that you’ll be done soon so he can move on and go play a man’s game — the Charlie’s Angels pinball machine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m sorry but it’s true. Also I’m not at all sorry.

So perhaps for your next date you should shove your tits together into a real bra, throw on some skinny jeans and take your poorly trained but adorable dog to the arcade. Nothing says “I’m a catch” quite like a woman who can underhand toss a round object in the direction of a hole and scream about it then leave with a stuffed animal the size of her own body and a handful of unredeemed paper circus tickets to show for it.