I promise I was not gay with too many famous icons.
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Today I attended my first and hopefully last PGA event—that’s pro golf.
Watching golf is horrible and tedious and somewhat hellish, plus I missed what would have certainly been an amazing time at the gym. However, I’m not here to bash golf. Well, sort of.
I was running late due to traffic and my car needing oil and gas, etc, etc, etc, so I drove quickly from the gates, my destination being an hour or so away. Of course, while driving far too quickly, I was also texting very frequently, drinking water from a filled gallon jug, and balancing my GPS (I cannot find my dashboard mount for it, so I hold it, or balance it against various objects in my car; it’s a very dangerous game). I assume I’m a better driver when I do multiple things at once; I’m considering the art of painting while driving.
Destination: Bloomfield, Connecticut…somewhere near Hartford in this strange land of neatly trimmed green grass fields and giant warehouses. GPS (I named her Nancy long ago) Nancy led me through the slums of West Hartford, through streets lined with mansions, and onto what should have been wilderness dirt roads in a matter of minutes. I hate Hartford. I thought I would be shot in a drive-by by one of various gangs, invited to a lavish mansion party where a beautiful older rich woman would assuredly make me do horrible things to her, and that my car would break down in the forest and rednecks would eat me—this, again, was in a span of five or so minutes. None of this happened, thankfully and regrettably.
Skip ahead. Justin and I arrive at the event, parking in some random old lady’s backyard, as she waves us in with a huge red flag. I comment that I love her patriotic shirt, covered in the American flag and whatnot. This is a lie; I detest American flag apparel and blankets and towels, but she was old and I thought she might have baked cookies or brownies for us. She had neither; this was the first of many ill omens.
I should also say that I knew beforehand that I would not enjoy live golf. However, I like doing things—anything—and I’m in the mindset that you should always do something at least once. Plus, I had not seen my good friend Justin in far too long.
We arrive and I quickly feel out of place. All golfers and golf fans look and talk alike; it’s disturbing. They’re preppy whereas I am anything but. They shake hands too often and tell unfunny jokes and laugh fake laughs and wear sunglasses that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Of course I’m stereotyping, but I stereotype everyone. A better writer than myself once told me it’s an author’s job to judge everyone before you know them.
Now the important stuff. I was promised free beer, so I immediately want free beer. Of course, I’m forced to walk for this free beer. This is a horrible travesty. So we walk somewhere.
First “golf experience”. All of a sudden some guys in red shirts are holding up their arms and everyone just stops and goes silent. What the fuck?! Did someone die? Is the news reporting a terrorist strike? Is Obama here? No, some golfer was just taking his putt. I knew golf was a gentleman’s sport, or something, but this quickly irritated me. This happened dozens of times all day, and one time my phone rang. I was pleased. Thank you, Abel. Yes, I’m aware you don’t read my blog. Jerk.
We finally find the place to eat, and we get some awesome VIP treatment because we’re badasses, with tons of free, amazing food and free drinks. I have a Shocktop. I enjoy Belgium wheats of all varieties. While getting my food, I managed to somehow shatter the ONLY tong-meat-grabber-thingy. And I mean shatter. I destroyed it. I’m just holding it, and it breaks into like ten pieces, some of which manage to cut my hands. I have unnaturally soft hands, for those who do not know…I workout without gloves almost every day, get firewood during winter, etc, etc, and my hands are the softest hands anyone has ever felt. If you want to feel my hands, just ask me in person; I’m more than willing. One time my friend insisted I rub his mom’s arms to demonstrate to her my soft hands. I listened. It was interesting. Anyway, I just slowly moved away from the mangled tongs and pretended nothing happened.
At this point I was eating and drinking contently. Also, I was routinely texting a dear friend, insisting she keep me entertained while golf tries to kill me, as she’s an amazing conversationalist and I very much enjoy her. I was happy, but then I ran out of food and I didn’t want to seem like a pig. Then I finished my beer, and I didn’t want to seem like an alcoholic. Sir, you finished that beer in two minutes. Sure I did, but it was delicious and I wanted more. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ENJOY GOLF SOBER! RAGE! RAWR! Then my friend stopped texting me. She fell asleep, likely from boredom vicariously lived through my boredom of golf. So no food, they wouldn’t let me carry more beer out of the fucking tent food area, and texting friend dropped the ball and left me to suffer. While Justin is always awesome to hang around with and quite amusing, I needed more help when my day revolved around watching golf.
You just sit, or stand, and watch two or three guys hit a ball. Everyone claps, or sighs. You can’t even see the ball in the air! It vanishes, as it’s going a thousand miles per hour. Then you walk more, and watch them do it again, and then you watch them miss putt after putt. I cannot see the appeal.
I entertained myself by thinking of various ways to making golf more interesting, and I every time I saw a black man, I asked Justin if he was Tiger Woods. This joke never got old.
Despite my many complaints, it was still worth doing, since I had not done it before, but it’s certainly nothing I’d ever pay for, or attend again. I guess I should have known. Even when I played par 3 golf, I’d bore quickly. After pushing my friend and his bags down the hills multiple times, and dragging my cart across the green, and using a driver on a par three and hitting the golf house, or the house across the street, or a car in the lot, or that house on top of the hill, or various other things not at all associated with golf, after all of this I should had assumed that golf is not for me.
Anyways, that’s all for today. I have a croquet tournament to attend. I fucking love croquet.
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