Our new pad has a dartboard. It’s the kind of stupid diversion I would never think of having in my domicile, but since the previous tenants had a dartboard and I dug it, it’s sorta become an institution around here. Also, ever since I saw action movies as a wee lad, the ones where the hero throws small, pointy projectiles at enemies (i.e. throwing stars, weighted knives, tomahawks, high-heeled shoes), I’ve had a secret affinity for lodging potentially deadly things in walls, boards, etc. I think one time when I was like ten years old I tried to kill birds in the back yard by hurling butter knives at them. I was stupid, like a really old, demented construction worker with a rivet in his head – except in the sprightly body of a ten-year-old.
Tonight Greg and I came home; he had all the intentions of going to bed early but somehow we ended up tossing darts for neigh an hour. Sometimes there was great tension as we sighted with intense concentration, trying to best each other’s finest efforts. Sometimes the contests reduced themselves feats of absurdity: who can hit the board for the most points from the far end of the room? Who can hit the board using the most arc? Who can nail the picture of Greg? Who can most shamefully lodge their dart in the drywall? Sometimes we had to mop the linoleum after someone actually got a bullseye and crapped all over the floor. It was great. We were playing shirtless and I had to fight the extreme urge to throw darts at Greg’s nipples. They’re so target-y. Damn I’m weird!
So yeah, darts are cool. Come over, have a beer, throw some darts with me. I’m lonely. Anyone wanna give me a job?