🎳 Alette in lane six is a self-righteous bitch

There are many mysteries that baffle you stupid humans, from the building of the pyramids to the meaning of life. But nothing bakes your noodles quite as much as wondering what goes on at the far end of a bowling lane. Where do the pins go? How do they know which ones to put back and which to leave down? If you’re imagining some complex series of motors and sensors, think again. The answer’s us: bowling fairies.

Every lane, in every bowling alley in the world, is run by a different bowling fairy. I’m stationed at San Jose Megabowl’s lane seventeen. Not the best-paying spot in the world, but not the worst, either. When I say ‘pay’ don’t think for one second I mean those filthy pieces of paper you all seem to care about so much. I’m talking about human disappointment. Human disappointment is our currency, our fuel, our reason for goddamn being.

Every gutterball, every missed spare, every thwarted perfect game; these put the spring in our step and the glitter on our wings. Here at the Megabowl, we have a league of our own: each month we measure who’s collected the most disappointment, and the winner gets to take home the lot—down to the last disappointing drop. 

Tonight’s the night I finally knock Alette off her stupid perch. That lane six bitch wins every freaking month, but rather than keep the disappointment for herself, little miss holier-than-thou donates it to fairy orphans and flightless veterans. Not me. After I sweep this month’s title, I’ll bathe in that shit. And when my fellow fairies cry about me being mean and selfish, I’ll use their pathetic tears as bubble bath.

There’s no way I can lose. I’m only a point behind Alette, and the final game on my lane is between two official bowling teams. Team games bring out every ounce of stress, anger, and frustration. It all adds up to a bucketload of disappointment—more than enough to tip the championship in my favor.

Things are off to a bad start, though. Both teams are bowling strikes, and their energy is peaceful and collected. Not a single drop of disappointment so far. I might need to break a few rules…

During the next would-be strike, I flutter by, grabbing onto the ten-pin for dear life. The bowler doesn’t flinch. Even when I swerve his second throw wide of the spare, he’s a picture of calm. Fuck.

I up the ante on the next player, leaving him with a dreaded 7-10 split. He smiles, a beacon of tranquility. Double fuck.

I pull out every trick: stealing their favorite ball, misscoring, changing their names in the system to ‘StoolbreathMcFuckFace’, but none of it produces a fairy’s jockstrap of disappointment. These bastards are unflappable.

The game ends and smug-as-shit Alette celebrates another victory. As I sulk back empty-winged, I catch a glimpse of the players’ shirts.

One thing’s for sure: next time the San Jose Stoic Society plays the Bayside Buddhists, this bowling fairy’s going on strike.