Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Who wants to shoot their friends?

In general I'm a fan of activities. Don't get me wrong, a Sunday Funday for me typically means doing "nothing", but nothing is never truly nothing. Nothing usually means I'll watch all the Fast and the Furious movies or something else embarrassing like The Last Song. I rarely can just sit, for this reason I usually like to plan activities for myself and those close to me. This past Sunday paintball was on the docket.

It happened like this, I vaguely remember seeing something on tv where paintball was depicted as a fun family activity. Sometime the week after the farce I saw on television I sent out an email to everyone I knew and asked who wanted to "shoot their friends", I got an alarmingly high positive response to that particular question. Thus this past Sunday was referred to affectionately as Sunday Funday Paintball, D Day, Deathmatch 2011, or The Day I Made Jeff-ry Cry (not really, but I thought he was going to for one very serious second).

In the week leading up to Deathmatch 2011, there was a lot of talk of snipers, what clothing was least likely to let your flesh be ripped from your bones, how much weaponry experience people had. Ultimately I started thinking I should have organized a kumbaya circle instead of a paintball trip, perhaps that would have been more my speed.

Alas, Sunday I showed up with my game face (did you know my game face has a quivering bottom lip?). We were given guns, face masks, and chest protectors. Some people chose not to wear the chest protectors. I can't wrap my brain around this, if the eyes are the boobs of the face and you go out of your way wearing a sight de-hancing face mask to protect them, then the boobs are the eyes of the body and you should want to give them the same level of protection. Whatever boys, they're your moobs, not my boobs...do what you want with them.

In the end I was a bad ace paint baller. As I was sliding across the course to hide behind barriers I felt like I was pulling out some sweet Dukes of Hazzard moves. Apparently it appeared different to the onlookers who were at times concerned I could have just broken a bone by the way my body contorted, but I'll retain the version I have in my mind in the ol memory bank. After the first few times out where I was shot and "killed" within seconds of the start whistle I got the hang of it and managed to leave some welts on my friends. After seeing the battle wounds of my friends I think I fared pretty well with the most serious injury on my rock hard bicep.

Someone call a vet...that python is sick!

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