Why am I here?

Why am I here at eleven at night playing with these weirdos?

Boy one is dressed like the aerobics instructor on a gay naturalist cruise, and boy two has taken twenty minutes to come up with his costume which consists of too tight Levi's, a gardening glove and a knight helmet. He's dressed as a baseball catcher, presumably.

My job is to toss the hacky sack at them, and then they bat it with their lollipop drum and run to the bases made of throw pillows. To be honest, I'm really not in the mood for this, and in another minute or two, I may just lose my lingering sanity and yell, "Do you think my parents ever threw a hacky sack at me while I ran around naked with a lollipop drum? No, of course, they didn't because I grew up in the eighties when times were tough and parents said no. a lot."

In spite of my inner objections, I persevere because they've just finished watching The Sandlot, and that movie turns me into an emotional mess. I was tearing up during the credits and sobbing before they had even introduced the main characters. So I guess I feel guilty that they won't wake up in the morning and round up a few buddies to head down to the sand lot. My guilt engenders throwing a hacky sak at them, apparently.