Drunken Recollection… Douchbag Machines
See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?
I hate this thing. I really do.
I wish I never set my eyes upon it. I’ll go one better and wish my friends’ eyes had never set upon it, because they’re the facilitators of the addiction.
Meet Punch! Or BoxClub… or Boxing… or whatever version the bar has. They’re all over the place, like a drunk girl on me (I wish). And they have been for awhile, but I’ve managed to keep my distance from what I designated as the Douchebag Machine. The higher the number you can hit on the dangling nutsack, the bigger the nutsack you are.
Or so I used to pretend. Now it’s almost like a Holy Grail when I step into a gin joint. Whomever spots it first begins the murmurs – “Did you see? Did you see?” And every unit is different. Ssome bags are soft, some are hard. Some respond well to running at it and others don’t.
So am I a douchebag for playing? Nope. And neither are my friends.
But everyone else still is.
