Maybe it’s my bad attitude. Maybe it’s because I cheat. Probably it’s because of my penchant for turning even the most peaceful activities violent. Like puzzles. Dangerous games, puzzles. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that when my friends are playing games, I am not often welcome.

Take last night for instance. After drinking one million beers downtown in celebration of my beloved Mistress Kay’s 25th birthday, everybody who returned to our house for the evening decided they wanted to play with Mistress’s Ouija board. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not be joining them.

I know why i’m not allowed to play with the Ouija. On the two previous occassions that I was allowed to sit in on their seance efforts, I spent the entire time loudly and enthusiastically demanding an appearance by Satan, even going so far as to offer various of my friends souls in exchange for a hang-out session with the horned demon lord of Hell.

Needless to say, old Lucifer didn’t show up, but evidently this was poor enough manners on my part to make those of my friends who believe in the ghostie-gobblies distinctly uncomfortable, so they subsequently banned me from all future Ouijaing activities.

I think they’re over-reacting. I have a hard time being intimidated by a product designed for children, and manufactured by Hasbro, creator of such fine diversionary products as Lincoln Logs, and Candy Land. I sincerely doubt that a 2 piece board game produced by the devious minds behind Play-Doh, is the secret to piercing the veil between the living and the dead, or initiating a mild to moderate case of demonic possession.

I’m pretty sure that if the little pointer block moves across the board, it’s not because the lost soul of Senator Purrrrrrceval, our childhood cat that tragically and completely accidently got hit by a car, is trying to tell us that he loves us and forgives us for putting him in a pillow case and hurling him off of a highway overpass, but because our drunk ass hands are pushing it around. We move unconsciously literally all the time. The human body is one twitchy sack of crap. In fact, you’re scratching your ass right now without noticing it. This unavoidable ideomotor effect is hardly evidence of paranormal activity.

I’m biased, as always. I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m about as spiritual as an empty condom wrapper. Some of my friends however, do believe in ghosts. Others want to believe. If they, as fully grown adults, want to play Ouija in the basement by candlelight (because everybody knows that ghosts prefer the dusty couch in the basement as well as inefficient light sources) that’s fine. Good for them. I read books while I poop, I know all about wasting time too.

I just hope they understand that since I wasn’t allowed to stay up all night with them conversing with ghostie-gobblies, i’ll be spending most of my day today while they nap rubbing my testicles on their toothbrushes.

OOOooooOOOooOOOoOooHHHHHHH!