The weekend started off with a bang, metaphorically speaking. In fact, any such sound whatsoever must have been confined to the Elysian fields of metaphor, because when I turned the key in my ignition on Friday, nothing happened at all. I may as well have had a zucchini plugged into wires where my engine was. Thankfully Debbie saved the day by picking me up and taking me to rent a car; I didn't have time to get it towed, you all know I'm fairly inept with repairing mechanical devices, and since Debbie offered me the use of a screwdriver from an eyeglass repair kit for my car, I thought it might be best to leave the Jeep where it was.
But you don't care about my car. You want to hear about the pub golf. Well, it was glorious. As the first place was a somewhat swanky wine bar, we got our first attack of giggles at the fact that Brock, who was dressed up in his dorkiest golf attire, actually fit in perfectly with the douches already there; we counted three different iterations of his exact outfit, in fact. From there we went to the Galley, where the owner asked to have a picture taken with Ray, the mastermind behind our round of alcoholic golf. At stop three, Finn McCools, we ran into Emerson and Nick, two good friends from college we haven't talked to in way too long, and they decided to join the round and stick with us for the rest of the night. Truly, truly delightful to see them.
I only wish I could remember more of it. I do know that we started gathering disciples in each bar we entered, and like the man from Galilee, soon we had our own devout congregation--only ours were worshiping at the altar of alcoholic self-flagellation. Our initial band of intrepid eleven hit somewhere around twenty five by the end of the night, I'm told. I say "I'm told" because I have no firm recollection of those later stages, but rather like a mere acquaintance who looks at the picture slide show on your laptop, I must construct the night from a few scattered moments, frozen in time. They are, in no particular order:
Being pretty gung-ho about demolishing a soft taco in one bite, choking on it, and having to settle for three.
Hating the Cadillac margarita, ordering a basket of chips to help wash it down--for every individual in the group--and then leaving the place just as our 10 baskets of chips arrived.
Delicious nut-brown Newcastle ale up my nose.
The rest has been pieced together by others, but apparently we had to attend a different bar for the 9th, one that didn't serve Irish Car Bombs, so some genius ordered Jager Bombs instead. I don't remember it at all, but my score card says I drank it, so I'll believe that.
Yes, you're reading that correctly: I shot a 19, a full twelve strokes under par. I decided to pull the trigger later that night (classic Colonel Gentleman, I know) and I was still a wreck the next day, but it was worth it. Of course, I didn't even come close to placing, as the organizer Ray won with an 11. He's a classy man, and thus I can't think of a better set of shoulders from which to hang this equally classy green jacket.
Oh yes, he made a jacket for the winner.
Speaking of winners, the crown for our own little contest has to go to Debbie. Not only did she guess the lowest score (amidst a truly staggering number of entries, I might add), but she also single-handedly ensured I was able to even make it to LA in the first place, so she could have guessed I'd score "Rhubarb" and she'd still have won this. Thanks to her, to everyone else who played along, and to my liver, for not quitting on me just yet.
3 comments:
Congratulations for surviving, good Colonel, and a big kudos to Debbie for proving to be far more insightful and reliable than anything to come out of Detroit, except maybe Marshall Mathers.
My only question about the whole evening is the glaring numeral "2" next to the Pint of Guinness entry. You should not have had to stop for a breath, as everyone knows Guinness so closely resembles embryonic fluid, Irish deep-sea divers have been using it for decades. This leads me to a few possible conclusions:
1) The taste of the sweet nectar touching your lips resigned you to enjoy the pint and simultaneously activated the Irish genes of misdirection and handshakedness. Your brilliantly glib speech and effortless wit ensorcelled the normally overly competitive crowd and allowed you to scribble a "2" while they were your captive audience.
2) You miscalculated the effect of Vodka and Guinness intermingling, causing a bit rumbling from your stomach. After taking a few breaths, you resigned yourself to a "2" come hell or projectile vomit.
3) In the middle of your drink a hobo that no one else could see shat upon a sleeping hobo and proceeded to wipe his hindquarters with the sleeping hobo's pet/dinner opossum. You were forced to stop and share this slice of awesome / point and laugh hysterically / gag a bit.
So which one was it, good Colonel? Your fans eagerly await your reply!
Actually, it was a temperature thing. I don't want to call "Shennanigans" or anything, but the Guinness was served ice cold--which, as you all know, is a Cardinal Sin, unless I suppose it's "Guinness Extra Cold," but I believe that Church is discussing whether that variant should be deemed an unholy abomination or not. Anyway, it just got too damn cold and I needed to take a moment to let the brain freeze abate a bit. For what it's worth, every one of us got 2 or 3 on that thing, and all because of that horrible, horrible cold.
Colonel...you left out the lovely bite of dinner you were treated to on Saturday evening. Leftover burger for breakfast on Monday morning? Awesome.
Also, lets give some credit to Brock, Darren and Rachel for canvassing every car rental/hot dog stand in Rivertucky to find said rental car.
Mark's post about the hobo reminds me of watching a homeless person wipe his ass with cardboard on Kearny St in SF with a heaping pile of poo at his feet. This was at 8 pm on a Thursday if I remember correctly.
By the way...the Guinness was just fine.
Mike
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