My only experience with paintball so far was at my sister's wedding. No, she didn't have paintballing. Exactly how white trash do you really think we are? I noticed one of her brothers-in-law had a large lump on the side of his neck that was definitely not there before. Worrying that my sister might be marrying into a family of birth defects, I asked her and she told me they'd gone paintballing the day before and that was where one of the balls had hit him. Pretty violent for a silly expensive game for grown ups, but men are stupid that way.
Fast forward. When Jay & Branden got back that afternoon, Branden had a pretty decent welt on his neck, which I was expecting. Jay, on the other hand, had more. Many, many more. When he finally stripped down, I counted 1, 2, 3, 4.......19. Yes, my 45-year-old husband had NINETEEN paintball welts all over his body. Arms, legs, shoulders, neck, head, torso. Apparently at the end of the game, several fathers thought they would "run the gauntlet" and let the kids attack them. What they didn't count on was my husband hitting a hole and pulling his hamstring and going down. What they also didn't count on was the other fathers having no military training and thus no concept of "no man left behind" and took that opportunity to save themselves instead. What they REALLY didn't count on, however, was the Lord of the Flies mob mentality that occurs when you hand a bunch of prepubescent boys guns and ammo, an afternoon full of sugar and caffeine, and a strong urge to shoot and kill. This miniature mercenary mob descended upon Jay and proceeded to shoot the living shit out of him, no holds barred, all rules discarded, honor of the battlefield be damned. My child, and all of his friends, shot up my husband at point blank range with hundreds (okay, we already established it was only 19) of paint balls.
THIS is what his side looks like 1 week later (keep in mind only 3 of the bruises are visible):
This is what his hamstring looked like 1 week later:
So last night as he was getting into bed and I admired his bruises as usual, our conversation went like this:
Me; "I need you to to write a notarized statement that says I didn't beat the crap out of you."
Him: "Even if we had a notary in bed, which we don't, why would I do that?"
Me: "What happens if you die in the middle of the night and the police see all the bruises and think I beat you and then killed you?"
Him: "What do I care? I'm dead."
Me: "Um, hello!!!! You should still care if your beloved wife is being put in prison for a crime I didn't commit yet. Even if you're all in heaven having a great time dancing and singing, you should still feel sad for me being accused of your murder, especially since that's not how I'm planning to do it."
Him: "Whatever. I'd be in heaven so it doesn't bother me."
Me (not impressed): "I can make it so you go to heaven now."
Me (not impressed): "I can make it so you go to heaven now."
Him (half asleep with a blissful smile on his face): "I wish."
