I'm the New Mayor of \”Fat City.\”
January 31, 2005
Filed under:"H" for "Toy"
I woke up Saturday mildly hungover and eager to face a morning with no house-showings or obligations. I was finally free to lounge on my back patio in my flannel PJ's and sombrero while lazily eating my Jam Pancakes.
Ah, bliss.
Until my phone rang at 10:45.
It was The Mom reminding me that LittleBrother's Birthday Party was in 15 minutes, and NOT at 3, as I had previously thought.
Unshowered, unshaven, hungover, and slightly stinky, I showed up at a place called \”Fat City,\” which is your basic Charles Edward Cheese (thanks Buttless), LaserTaggery-FoamBallBouncingy-Arcady type place.
I was tremendously relieved when I saw several sets of parents as well as The Mom and LifePartner hovering over the table of 8-year-old-pizza-eating monkeys, but I'd no sooner reached the table when ALL of the parents left. Every damn one of them.
This is when LifePartner explained to me that, since LittleBrother would follow me through the Fires of Hell, I was going to be the \”hand's on\” chaperone during their activities, while she and The Mom watched the exits for potential escapees.
I thought this would basically mean that I was going to babysit, settle fights, and mend boo-boos while The Mom and LifePartner sat and chit-chatted over beers (How cool is it that they serve beer there? Multiple bars too, so that, unlike that Rat's Party Joint, I can drink as much as I damn well please).
Turns out that \”hand's on chaperone\” meant that I got to do what I'm best at when surrounded by 8-year old Monkeys…
Act like an 8-year old Monkey.
First up was Laser Tag, which gave me a slight disadvantage as the vests were all the same size. A tad droopy on the kids meant that I couldn't fasten the buckles over my beer-enlarged bulk and was teased accordingly.
The rules were explicit about \”No Running,\” however they failed to outline their position on \”FBI Tactical Maneuvers,\” and I used this loophole to my complete advantage.
When facing a large, darkened, room, writhing with Laser-Blasting-Yard-Apes, the best way to enter any fray is a well-timed, diving-shoulder-roll, and to come up a-firing.
Intensely muttering the \”Mission: Impossible\” theme (\”DUNH, DUNH, DA-DAH…\”), moving \”cop-style\” around each and every surface, and systematically laying waste to all gun-toting urchins that crossed my path was almost as much fun as flinging my body to the ground and kicking my legs throes-of-death-spasmodically every time I got hit. This was apparently terribly entertaining to the kids as well as a couple of the mom's that were in there too, which meant that I got shot a lot.
None of them could match my cat-like agility and lightning-fast quickdraw abilities though.
Average of 23 other shooters:
Targets Hit, 31. Times Hit, 41. Shots Fired, 211. Rank, Solar Sargeant.
JuddHole's Average:
Targets Hit, 75. Times Hit, 32. Shots Fired, 719. Rank, Lunar Captain.
I Fuckin' Rock.
I more than Rock. I totally dominated at Bumper Cars against the 8-year olds (220 lbs vs. 60 lbs = Judd Wins), smashing all 7 of the other drivers into the rails repeatedly, and I hit the \”10,000\” hole on SkeeBall three times in one game. I ended up giving my tickets to ChubbyBoy so that he could get not one, but FOUR, plastic Ninja swords.
I'll admit that I was partially motivated in doing this by the knowledge that I would be joining the Ninja-Sword-Fighting Action too.
(I'm purposely omitting the fact that BuckTeeth whipped the ever-lovin' shit out of me at Tekken 4, but I'd never played before, and his crooked-toothed-lil-ass had just beat the computer 6 straight rounds to be crowned \”Tekken Champion.\” Not fair.)
I'd barely noticed that our 4-hour block of InsanelyFunninestFun was almost up while the kids were being herded into FoamBall Compound, where their parents were waiting to pick them up.
I sat down with all of the Elders while the kids were putting on their shoes, and loudly proclaimed that JuddHole Birthday Number 31 was going to be held in the same establishment in that exact style. Almost in unison, 4 little shoe-tying voices piped in, \”REALLY, can WE come!?!\”
I thought about it for a second, then told 'em, \”HELL Yeah.\”
Next September, I want to frickin' pack that place, so you're all invited too.
After all the kids were gone, LifePartner asked me to go into FoamBall Compound and retrieve LittleBrother.
\”You mean *I* can go in there too!?! Why didn't anybody tell me?!?\”
\”We thought you'd want to sit down and take a breather…\”
\”Shit.\” I was already in motion, kicking off my boots, and running in for a cursory look for LittleBrother.
Then I spotted them.
Air-Compressed FoamBall Cannons.
Shit, I thought the whole thing was just about jumping on, and throwing around, those little foam balls. I had no idea I could SHOOT them. I ran past the sign that said, \”DO NOT Enter if over 60 inches tall (75 inches isn't THAT much over the limit),\” and found myself an open turret.
Similar to Laser Tag, there were potential targets everywhere, but this time none of them were shooting back.
\”MWUHAHAHAHAHAA!\” I cackled as I pelted unsuspecting children with my Foam Artillery. I discovered that the guns fire better when loaded with one ball at a time, and a little 7-year old Birthday Girl named Tina experienced this revelation precisely between the pigtails on the back of her head.
It was awesome.
I was swinging the gun this way and that, blasting everything that had a heartbeat, when I heard someone shouting, \”Hey! Hey, Judd!\”
LittleBrother was standing behind me with a curious look on his face, grinning at my maniacal laughter and Foam Onslaught.
\”Mom says I'm s'posed to get you.\”
\”Oh… right… yeah… time to go.\”
For any of you in the Denver-Metro Area, my \”chaperoning services\” are also available for Bar Mitzvahs and Graduations.
Tell others how much I fkn ROCK:
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