Bar Belle: Balls in holes
So I tried out this game called “golf” the other day and found it to be boring, difficult and uninspiring. And when I say “tried out,” I mean I drove a cart around as my team attempted to hit balls into a hole from far, far away. There were no windmills, no clown mouths, no castles and no hole that takes your ball forever. And most of the team used white balls! White balls? My favorite part of putt-putt is picking my ball color.
Golf is kinda like putt-putt, but stretched way out — like a Stretch Armstrong doll (although I had a George “The Animal” Steele one when I was a kid). It’s gonna take way more than four or five hits to even get near the hole, which comes with a flag in it. And a hole-in-one is damn near impossible. It’s like asking you to hit a ball from the Back Door to Flanagan’s and not being able to stop for a beer in between.
Golf is very serious, and I was warned to remain quiet while hitting attempts were in progress. Luckily, this was only a scramble, although I requested over-easy. At a scramble, everything is for charity and fun, so rules are bent, missed shots are mostly shrugged off, and a golf cart selling beer and Jell-O shots makes frequent rounds. My team of four ladies was only one of the many in the 29th annual “The Mitzi” Silliman Golf Classic, which raised more than $13,000 for various charities, including Hosparus.
Most of the time I was entertained maneuvering the golf cart around Cherokee Park and cheering for my teammates while guzzling Miller Lites and airplane bottles of liquor. If someone hit the ball more than 50 yards, I felt like it was a success and gave my best Julia Roberts polo-match catcall, even if it landed in a sand trap, skewed off the course into the forest, or plopped into a pond. Each of my teammates carried around a huge duffle bag with maybe 10 or so different clubs and were not impressed when I grabbed one for air-guitar purposes. I’m not sure how they knew when to use each one, but they would stare down the course, walk over and select a club, take a few practice swings, hit the ball, curse, and then go chase down the ball they just hit. It was exhausting to watch from where I was sitting.
I’m not really certain of the rules or terms of the game; the objective is simply to get balls in holes, which is ironically the same as a frat boy’s on a Friday night. Someone named “Par” determines how many attempts it should take a skilled golfer to get the ball in the hole, and then everyone tries to live up to that standard. Most fail.
I’d get up and stretch my legs about the time they all ended up near the hole. I liked the feel of clean-shaven grass on my feet, and the game became more putt-putt-like as they struggled to nudge the ball toward the flag from a few feet away. I even got to take a couple swings throughout the day — actual swings, not swigs — and I’m pretty sure the ball went backward at one point. So I’m no Tiger Woods, but I do enjoy blondes.
We played a total of nine holes, I think, and it took the entire afternoon. The cart was returned safe and sound; the same can’t be said about my liver. I suppose if I had more patience, more opportunities to potty and better aim, I might enjoy this golf thing. But I hear it’s a pretty expensive sport, so I think I’ll just stick to happy hour. If you need a caddy, though, give me a call. Just make sure there are plenty of Jell-O shots available. And you’ll need to get your own damn club — I’ll be workin’ on my tan.
Drunk Texts of the Week
• I like your taco spread
• She drank the bitch-flavored kool aid
• Call me when you’re sober. –Seriously
• Tastes like vacation pussy!