Saturday 21 February 2009
	The engraving on your bowling ball is dangerous to your health.
	It is three in the morning and I am in my garage and I 'm sitting on a stool.  On the plywood table near the stool sits a small table lamp and screwed into the lamp is a sixty watt bulb (which is switched on).  I'm working on another invention and while I work on my invention I'm smoking a cigarette and while I'm smoking a cigarette I'm tapping my foot and while I'm tapping my foot I talk aloud. Norm talking aloud and (to himself) but if you were standing nearby (eavesdropping) you'd surely think there were another person in the garage with him: "Don't tell me Americans wouldn't be interested in a dildo polisher.  When I was a kid I bowled and the bowling alley had ball polishers.  I had a sixteen pound ball.  That's the heaviest damn ball there is.  Sixteen pounds!  Two dollars at the Salvation Army.  Thanks mom.  There were initials on the ball, too.  THC.  When I bowled I pretended I was THC.  Some of the kids on my team even called me, THC.  Most certainly (I deduced), THC was a professional bowler.  Probably deceased (tragically and dramatically).  When I threw the ball down the lane I imagined THC's rebirth and through me he'd be reborn and my arm was his arm and his arm was my arm and together we'd awe and amaze onlookers as I threw strike after strike after strike.  Unfortunately, the ghost of THC rarely made an appearance and it wasn't often that my bowling skills awed and amazed, anyone.  Marijuana however, contains Tetrahydrocannabino and it's abbreviated THC and over the years I've smoked a good amount of pot.  I wonder if my fuckin' bowling ball was trying to tell me something.  THC wasn't a master bowler who died suddenly while on a PBA tour.  THC was my destiny.  I was gonna be a pot head.  The sixteen pounder said so.  My bowling ball (THC) was in actuality a covert commercial for cannabis and I'd been exposed to those worn letters (THC)  thousands of times.  The folks at the Salvation Army sold my mom a commercial for refer for only two bucks and it worked.  Wanna smoke some shit, bitch?  I'm a doper because of a flippant purchase made by my mother years earlier.  THC is my friend.  Smoke some shit, whore?  Is it possible the Salvation Army deliberately (and with great purpose) engraves every bowling ball they sell with the initials, THC?  The Salvation Army is a front, I know that now.  Their real motive: Move millions of engraved two dollar bowling balls (with the initials THC) throughout the world.  Get bargain shoppers hooked on weed.  They're probably making a fortune.  It's too late for me, now.  The sixteen pounder fucked me.  It fucked me real good.      THC, THC, THC... Norm stops talking aloud (to himself)and if you were standing nearby (eavesdropping) you'd hear nothing but foot taps and the occasional sound of a bull pein hammer making contact with something.  The rest of this essay is Norm, thinking. I relight another cigarette and while I'm exhaling the smoke from my lungs I'm thinking about my dildo invention.  At most bowling alleys there are bowling ball polishers.  It's a machine with a motor in it and some polishing wheels. Anyone can deposit a buck and the door will open and when the door opens one simply inserts their bowling ball and when the ball is inserted the door closes and while it's closed the balls spins at a high rate of speed. The ball polisher was more important to me than the actual act of bowling.  According to statistics, 73.2 million dildos are sold every year in the United States.  If I can get my dildo polisher perfected, patented and operating well I could position my device on every street corner in America.  I figure it'll be about the same size as a newspaper box (complete with video screen).  Insert a buck, a door slides open and a voice coming from the onboard speaker will say, "Place your dildo on the tray."  My machine will self-adjust to any size dildo. Four inches, eight inches, twelve inches, eighteen inches.  Size won't matter.  In forty-five seconds the door will open and your dildo will be cleaned, oiled and polished.  Additionally my machine will run a stress test on the dildo checking it for structural integrity.  If the dildo is nearing the end of it's usefulness my machine will offer up a menu.  Six new dildos of varying widths and lengths (stocked inside the machine) will be offered to the consumer and they'll have the option to rid themselves of their old dildo (the machine will keep it under the premise of recycling and their new dildo will be vended). It's ten minutes 'til four in the morning and I relight another cigarette and while I'm exhaling the smoke from my lungs I'm thinking about all the money I'm gonna make and while I'm thinking about all the money I'm gonna make I'm also thinking about what I'll call my revolutionary machine.        NOTE: Maybe my mother was in on it.  Also, The Salvation army helps people.  Additionally, as I type these last few lines I'm talking on a cell phone to my weed retailer.  Time to get my hands on another brick of shit.  The sixteen pounder said so. PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT Click Here To Subscribe To Norm's Essays