Preface:
Had you asked me Friday or even Saturday morning whether I would have a story resulting from a weekend involving a day drinking golf outing in the cold rain, my guess would have been many.
Pocket Husbands:
Generally speaking the crowd I was with would be plenty of reason to suspect such a ridiculous time. That in combination with my having been out all night Friday drinking bourbon and flirting with a pretty girl who just about 2 minutes before we parted ways, slipped her petite little hand into her jeans pocket and casually rustled a wedding ring back onto her finger. Had I been sober or had I consumed straight whiskey, without question I would have probably been rather upset and likely informed her that she is a pathetic and disloyal "whoredog" (knew favorite aphorism). Be that as it may, I just sort of stared awkwardly at it until she noticed that I, in fact, noticed. Then I jokingly said "nifty maneuver. I keep my wife in my shoe!" To which, very little was said back to me. Women are scandalous.
Needless to say, a 7:30am wake up for Saturday golf/drinking in carts would be a loopy one at best. As I arrive with my group at the course I see the line already raging for 9am screw drivers and Bloody Mary’s so saturated with vodka that you could see right to the bottom of the cup. After consuming one straight orange juice and one partial vodka I was about as lackadaisical as one could get.
I will fast-forward through the first 9 holes as they were about as "ho-hum" as can be. A bogie, birdie and an eagle at about a beer a hole pace, nothing large. As we come around the bend it begins to pour on us, already about 50 degrees it was about as welcomed as a nail in my skull. Making things only worse was the fact that in my drunken stupor upon waking up, I had sort of felt it might still be August and wore a short sleeved shirt and shorts.
Outside of a few wayward golf shots smacking off houses and the obligatory "FUCK!" being yelled upon poor shots, and a course littered in empty beer cans and chew tins -- you would barely know we were out there.
Middle Aged Peer Pressure:
As our round was coming to a close, within one hole of the finish (thinking, my goodness, we actually are all going to make it out without being smashed, injured, arrested or at least horrifically offending anyone) I spoke or rather, thought too soon. We roll up on our last Tee box. We see what is likely the oldest foursome in our event, 3 large men and a female, 8 beers, 2/3 bottles of vodka, 1 empty bottle of tequila (currently sitting in the greenside bunker on 16) and the ever-familiar bottle of Jack Daniels. We got SO damn close to making it home incident free. One member of our group who shall remain nameless has a legendary skill known affectionately as the "Farney Slam" in which a mostly new bottle of JD is swung open and then in rapid time completely emptied by this superstar of the drinking world. At current he is now officially in his 30’s and perhaps only slightly off his game. With a fairly controlled effort throughout the round of less than a dozen beers he was in good shape. As tradition would have it the most collegian sounds of chanting and peer pressure begin to coil up upon him as the presentation of Jack Daniels has been made in offering by our elder statesman. Perhaps due to age or the drive or notion of being so close to the finish line (basically anything except common sense) he declines to show off his drinking prowess -- albeit not at full throttle. He however, accepts the 8oz tug pull, something in the past which would be no more than a "warm-up".
Jack Induced Victimization of Teenagers:
I take a glance at his face prior to the JD, looks good, normal, everything is functioning (with exception for his SHAMLESS marketing of his company which has provided him towels, balls, tees, cup holders, probably even Jimmy's!). Down the hatch Mr. Daniels goes and almost as soon the cup was at a rest, I could see the flushing over of his eyes....it was already a losing battle with no more than 494 yards to freedom, he had already surrendered his position. I reluctantly hop in the cart as he speeds away, swaying right then left, then whipping a stopping u-turn cans flying, chew flying, balls flying (wait....that doesn't sound quite right). after about 3 hacks he eventually picks his ball up as the first went off a building, the next a tree and the next didn't pass the cart. Resolved to just be hammered, he starts our cart moving, as I walk up and tap in our final birdie. I clean my club and hop back in the cart with Keith Richards, as we slowly make our way back to the Tee area we see a couple of somewhat dorky looking skinny kids walking in the middle of the path. I look over and see no appearance of slowing down nor consideration for these kids. Just then a slight slowing down, and a glare, as the kid (over 15 less than 18) looks up at us, more specifically Chris Farley driving the cart, I hear a slight belch and then in the most ethnic of voices…
"WAT U FINNA DO… NERD?"
FAIL. (yet, seemingly successfully)
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