Grab Your Balls

Tonight is the big season kick-off party at CC Slaughters. You should have seen me clutch my chest and gasp for air when I saw the original flyer that said we would be selling "raffel tickets". Thankfully, somebody corrected it before I had to be taken to the emergency room.

Pony complains about the use of color on the flyer, but I can't make fun of his graphic design snobbery. After all, he is the master designer of Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven. Without Pony, I would be just another pumpkin orange Blogger template. Thank you Pony!

At CC Slaughters the other night, someone asked Pony, "Excuse me, where is your bathroom?" That was such a funny moment to me. I love when my friends are mistaken for the help. Actually, at CC Slaughters, many of my friends are the help. I'm sorry - perhaps referring to them as "the help" is condescending, so I will rephrase that. I love when my friends are mistaken for servants.

The party tonight will be great, and I am looking forward to my first party as a jock. It is so wonderfully incongruous to be downing Jell-o shots in a softball uniform. Something about it seems so wrong and so right.

I sort of took on the task of organizing volunteers for the event, and I was pretty efficient until this week. While waiting to start our fundraising meeting Tuesday night, I drank several whiskeys. By the time the rest of the guys showed up for the meeting, I was too drunk to take minutes.

I'm a class act, I tell ya.