Dear Wicked Hotel Chain That Demolished the Bowling Alley In My Home Town,
How dare you. Do you realize what you’ve done?
Not only have you callously nuked away the sole means of relatively wholesome hijinx for this one dead horse town, you’ve also incinerated what small part of my childhood I have set aside as deemed worth holding on to. Which ain’t much, friend.
Nevermore will I haunt the dirty, dimly-lit chambers in search of powder cheese nachos and double fried pig-burgers (a cheese burger topped with bacon and coleslaw).
Nevermore will I inhale the aroma of white trash feet and Keystone Light and sweaty sex and that special….bowling alley smell. Is it the balls that make it smell that way?
Perhaps the pins? Guess we’ll never know, will we?
Do you know how many adolescent boys and girls you have just flat out ROBBED of their first potential sexual experience? The Rocket Bowl was makeout central in its day. Now our children will have to get their strange kicked out somewhere else. Like a cemetery or a schoolyard. Behind the Winn Dixie will work in a pinch, but come on.
Those places just don’t have the same…character. That kind of thing is important for milestoneslike that. It helps you paint the memories more vividly.
Never again will a thirteen year old boy drunk on Mad Dog and Kool Aid set fire to one of the outside dumpsters with a package of Black Cats. Never again will the same teenage drunkard pour out shitty colonge onto the parking lot in the shape of a pentagram and light in on fire. Calling out to Satan or Motley Crue or some random Dungeons & Dragons entity.
You don’t even have pay-per-view porn in your rooms.
It would be worth it, maybe, if you at least had some good gonzo action available. Something Like “Bang Bus” before it got all commercialized.
Thanks for nothing.