Yesterday, I was feeling a little under the weather. Because of this, I was unable to make our floor hockey game, and feared that without my grit and leadership, the Jesus Cobras would fall to defeat. After all, we were playing the first place team and were already low on men.
However, Rachelle didn’t seem concerned that I was going to miss the game. In fact, she seemed kind of happy. I figured that she was just putting on a brave face, as she didn’t want me to feel any worse than I already did.
When Rachelle came back she was glowing, like she’d just met Clive Owen. She told me that we’d won our floor hockey game and it was the BEST GAME EVER!! EVERYBODY PLAYED FANTASTIC AND HAD A GREAT TIME!! After their “stirring victory,” they went to Clinton’s, where they got free wings and pitchers of beer– for some reason– and then had spontaneous piggyback fights on the sidewalk, like some stupid, fucking Mentos commercial. It turns out that minus me, the team “gels.” As Rachelle tactfully put it, “ it seems that people might feel less pressure when you’re not there, as there’s less shrieking and vomiting before the game.” Nice.
Well, as The Judas Cobras were running around having the time of their lives, I was at home on the sofa fighting for my life. While drifting in and out of consciousness, I had a sort of waking dream in which the stuffed squirrel on our mantle began to speak to me. He told me that his name was Skip, not Mr. Peanut, as Rachelle had dubbed him. Skip, a Presbyterian with some interesting and progressive ideas about the church, told me that Rachelle steals money from my wallet and spends hours on Clive Owen fan sites. Thinks she might be a shoplifter, too. Just saying.