Golf Course Misadventures

12 Aug

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the clouds were white and fluffy. and I wanted nothing to do with it. Chirping birds and shining sun invariably means early rising. I roused myself out of bed, looked out to the beautiful day. As the clouds gave me a smile, I flipped them the bird.

Fuck mornings, I am not an early riser.

Today, though, I had to make an exception. This was my bi-monthly attempt at excelling at a sport other than long-distance running. Of course, I had to raise the gauntlet by choosing one of the most coordinated sports on the planet: golf.

See, I love golf. I have fun with it. I go out with my little brother and my father, and today since he’s home on leave, my older brother was out there to join us. My mother tagged along to make it one dysfunctional happy family. But if there’s something that my older brother and I absolutely abhor, it’s early mornings.

“Dude,” he said to me as we left the house to play golf, the clock reading just shy of seven “this blows.”

Little did I know, but that would come to encapsulate the entire round.

When we got to the course, my mood had improved markedly. I saw deer prancing, hawks swooping, and nature manages to always take my morning grumpiness and eventually make me smile. And then came the one species I wish was endangered: wild frat boys.

We all know the ones. Screaming out at the top of their lungs, maxing out their jaw muscles and stomachs with what has to be gallons of shitty beer. The kind of people who are even hated in environments where that kind of crap is expected. Yep. They had invaded the golf course.

Swing. Clunk. “FUCK!”

Woosh. Crackle. “CUNT!”

We got to witness the entire foul-mouthed debauchery. I could imagine doe fawning (Get it?! hah!) over their young with earmuffs- hawks screeching just because it sounded better than the rancid words pouring out like a tsunami of New York sewage.

Despite it all, however, I can actually say we had a good time. The course was actually rather pretty, and the parade of pickle-livered imbeciles left after nine holes. My older brother pretty much acted as a dousing rod, finding water in places that weren’t even mentioned on the score card. My little brother talked a lot of trash and came up short (such is puberty), but actually had a decent round all-around. My mother was our unrelenting cheerleader.

“Great shot!”

“Mom, that was total crap!”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Mom, I appreciate it, but it went five yards, somehow managed to levitate, pillaged a small village, shot an adventurer in the knee, and double-dog-dared Charlie Sheen to relapse just for the pure-t hell of it!”

“Well at least it went straight.”

God bless my mother and her optimism.

My dad succeeded in sufficiently kicking the shit out of all of our scores. I’m sure my poor score-card would have felt less violated at Neverland Ranch. We suspect he might have had an advantage since he naturally wakes up at the unholy hour of 4:30 every blooming morning.

Me? Well I proved once and for all that I am about as coordinated as a blind-folded dog in the back of a moving van because I shot a 109. About 37 over par. I’m sure I won’t be getting any invitations to play on the PGA tour anytime soon.

How about you guys? Have any of you had an oddly dichotomous round of golf before? Let me know in the comments below or shoot me an email at



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