The only applicable word is: whoa.

Seriously. You guys. I don't even know how to describe my experience this weekend at a state bowling tournament. For women. All women. Which you'd think would be a lot of puppies and rainbows and pink and estrogen, but instead was a lot of bulldogs, storm clouds, black and a plethora of four-letter words.

In other words, scary.

My sister's a lot of pink and puppies, most times, with some black and four-letter words mixed in, but I would never have expected to see her a part of what I witnessed on Saturday.

These bowlers were hardcore. Intense. Big. Brooding. Most of them were women, from what I could tell based solely on outward appearance, but others were questionable.

I mean, really questionable. Like, the man sitting next to me, an innocent bystander like myself, asked how a man was allowed on the team. I think I may have even heard roaring coming from amongst the bowling balls and clouds of smoke.

I swear.

I mostly whimpered in my seat for two hours, focusing only on my sister and her team of normal people. I worried they actually might be eaten alive by the beasts that surrounded them, who were busy uttering victory chants laced with F-bombs and wrapping their hair in scrunchies.

I guess I just didn't realize bowlers were so... intense? Man-eating? Angry?  Especially bowlers of the female persuasion, blowing smoke from the corners of their lips and eyeing pins at the end of the lane.

These were the kind of women who eat the delicate for lunch. Make babies cry. Hold up their pants with beer guts.

And then there was my sister. Pink on her shoes, Winnie the Pooh on her team t-shirt. Like a puppy in a pack of wolves. Which would almost be convincing except I'm pretty sure she told me she gave the finger to one of the beastly broads two lanes over, and that had to take some balls.

And not the bowling kind.