Thursday, September 07, 2006
Adventures In Margaritaville, Part 2
The Jello Shot Prince formerly known as The Golf God was on the blower at 8:10, wanting to know why I wasn't downstairs to go over the golf course in preparation for the Parrot Grande Golf Tourney on Saturday. Clearly, JSP did not experience Thursday night the way I did, having driven up just that morning. Gotta hand it him, though - JSP is one resilient dude. He might get up in the morning feeling like hammered dog shit, but he answers the bell. Fortunately, I was up and ready to go.
Now see, this was official tournament business, I took four of my most trusteddrinkers advisers out and surveyed all 18 holes of the course. Naturally, we did so by chasing golf balls around on it. We managed to establish where we wanted our side games, but the damned round took five hours.
Can't remember when I was ever on the course that long. It was hotter than a two-dicked Chihuahua and not a sign of a breeze. My most notable accomplishment was managing to thoroughly dehydrate and exhaust myself.
Wayners showed up and dropped on me that he had rented a penthouse. He's been jealous ever since Phins To The West, when I got a great room overlooking the pool. His overlooked the dumpster. This was his chance to lord it over me. Of course, I then had to break the news to him that he was on the same level as The Goat, who when provided the right types of food can fart out the entire floor of just about any hotel.
The golf apostles all headed up there for beer, goodie bag stuffing, and planning. The first two got done. Trying to accomplish the third was like trying to gain control of a dozen third graders who just polished off a gallon of root beer and got set loose in a candy store. After several vain and futile attempts at establishing order, JSP finally leans over and says "You're the Golf God, dumbass. Just make the decisions and run with it."
Thank you, Prince.
By dinnertime, I was completely exhausted and grumpy. The restaurant did not help matters when they left us sitting for an hour waiting for some fried fish.
Excuse me....You people DID know that 113 of us were coming for the weekend, right?
By 9:00PM, I was done. But I had three more hours to go to the "It's Midnight And I Can't Putt Yet" tournament. I broke into a rousing rendition of It's Twelve O'Clock Somewhere, but it didn't work. I had to wait it out.
Running the midnight putting contest is....well, a challenge. You got maybe 40 drunks trying to putt a blinking golf ball from between two Corona bottles to a hole with glow sticks in it. There is but one key to winning the putting contest. No, it's not in the wrists. It's not in the line. It's not in the address or the follow through. The key, Parrotheads, is contained in one simple word: Sobriety. Having felt dehydrated and exhausted all night, I had not been drinking. I was not even going to participate, but Cheap Bastard insisted and handed me his putter. Damned if I didn't win the contest. Someone commented, "Hey! You can't win your own contest!" Anyone who has seen the coveted traveling "It's Midnight and I Can't Putt Yet" trophy knows one unique fact: No one who is thinking clearly wants to win the hideous thing. Nonetheless victory was mine after two-putting under an inflatable seaplane, around an iguana, and just left of the dancing pink crustacean.
Now, that's GOLF, folks.
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Now see, this was official tournament business, I took four of my most trusted
Can't remember when I was ever on the course that long. It was hotter than a two-dicked Chihuahua and not a sign of a breeze. My most notable accomplishment was managing to thoroughly dehydrate and exhaust myself.
Wayners showed up and dropped on me that he had rented a penthouse. He's been jealous ever since Phins To The West, when I got a great room overlooking the pool. His overlooked the dumpster. This was his chance to lord it over me. Of course, I then had to break the news to him that he was on the same level as The Goat, who when provided the right types of food can fart out the entire floor of just about any hotel.
The golf apostles all headed up there for beer, goodie bag stuffing, and planning. The first two got done. Trying to accomplish the third was like trying to gain control of a dozen third graders who just polished off a gallon of root beer and got set loose in a candy store. After several vain and futile attempts at establishing order, JSP finally leans over and says "You're the Golf God, dumbass. Just make the decisions and run with it."
Thank you, Prince.
By dinnertime, I was completely exhausted and grumpy. The restaurant did not help matters when they left us sitting for an hour waiting for some fried fish.
Excuse me....You people DID know that 113 of us were coming for the weekend, right?
By 9:00PM, I was done. But I had three more hours to go to the "It's Midnight And I Can't Putt Yet" tournament. I broke into a rousing rendition of It's Twelve O'Clock Somewhere, but it didn't work. I had to wait it out.
Running the midnight putting contest is....well, a challenge. You got maybe 40 drunks trying to putt a blinking golf ball from between two Corona bottles to a hole with glow sticks in it. There is but one key to winning the putting contest. No, it's not in the wrists. It's not in the line. It's not in the address or the follow through. The key, Parrotheads, is contained in one simple word: Sobriety. Having felt dehydrated and exhausted all night, I had not been drinking. I was not even going to participate, but Cheap Bastard insisted and handed me his putter. Damned if I didn't win the contest. Someone commented, "Hey! You can't win your own contest!" Anyone who has seen the coveted traveling "It's Midnight and I Can't Putt Yet" trophy knows one unique fact: No one who is thinking clearly wants to win the hideous thing. Nonetheless victory was mine after two-putting under an inflatable seaplane, around an iguana, and just left of the dancing pink crustacean.
Now, that's GOLF, folks.
