Yesterday, a bat had found its way into our office and was terrorizing employees. I heroically battled this ferocious beast, narrowly avoiding its razor sharp claws and lasers shooting from its eyes.
In actuality, it was just flopping on the ground and I held a piece of cardboard over it until we could get something to carry it out of the building.
But, still, I'm a total hero.
Growing up, we had bats in our house all the time. My Mom would scream and my Dad, brother and I would grab tennis rackets and chase the thing around the house until one of us went all Pete Sampras on that mofo.
Which was all fine and dandy.
Until the time I was 17 and came home at 1am after having consumed some adult beverages. I walked in to the greeting of a small winged rat flying at my head. Being 17, I couldn't wake my parents up because they would see I had been drinking, but I also couldn't go to bed with a bat in the house because dude wasn't even paying rent.
So, I drunkenly grabbed a tennis racket and stumbled around the house swinging at the bat. We played this little game in the kitchen for about 10 minutes until it got bored with that room and went to the dining room.
But our dining room was one of those rooms people aren't allowed to actually enter. The rooms that are only for "company" and if my Dad or I stepped foot inside them, we would face certain doom. Shit was scarier than bats with laser beam eyes.
So I, in a drunken stupor, holding a tennis racket, walk into the forbidden layer of white furniture.
After another epic battle of the bat flying past me and my feeble attempts to swat at it - I finally connected and knocked it senseless.
Which would have been fine and dandy...
Except a let out a deafening "WOOOOOOOOO!" as soon as I hit it.
In my mind, I had just blasted a homerun over the left field wall to win game 7 of the World Series.
In my parents mind, I had just come home drunk at age 17 - and woken them up at 1am.
Which meant it was their turn to chase me around the house with a tennis racket.