There I was, standing in line at the Mama’s Meatballs food truck during the Jack Johnson concert and unable to keep my stupid mouth shut:
I can’t wait to stick some balls in my mouth!
Whoa! Those are big balls!
Three? You can get three balls? I’ve only ever had two at a time!
Look! They stick their balls inside buns!
Blue balls! People pay for blue balls?!? I definitely want to get Brad Pitt some blue balls!
I couldn’t stop.
I made so many ball references that I was impressed with myself.
I was on fire.
I was hilarious.
I was witty.
Yes, I wrote hilarious twice. That is how funny I thought I was that evening. And I must have been somewhat hilarious, because My Seeester and the girl in front of us were both cracking up along with me.
When it was finally our turn to order, I went balls to the wall and ordered three for each of us.
With buns, without buns, spicy, extra cheese… you name it, I ordered it. And when I pulled out my debit card to pay for all the balls, I was smacked down.
My Seeester and I frantically dug through our pockets and purses and came up with cash. But not enough. The line behind us was growing. And grumbling.
We edited our order, whittling it down to the nitty gritty, realizing the lesser the balls, the more likely we would eventually be able to make it happen. I stood there, a dollar short of a chance at three balls and as I looked around at those behind me in line, I felt helpless. I think the look in my eyes was begging someone to please, please, just give me a dollar!
It was humiliating.
I’m pretty sure karma was paying me back for every single immature ball reference I made while waiting in line.