"Full Throttle" Bitches!

So it happened again. I was playing poker and drinking beer until 3 am last night. Damn. But you know, sometimes playing cards and drinking CANNOT be avoided. It was fate. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t stop drinking and gambling.

So now it’s 6 am. Guess who's ready to get up and work? THIS GUY.

I was in one of those delirious moods this morning where I laughed at everything. I couldn't believe I’d be working on 3 hours of sleep. So instead of going straight to work, I made sure to stop and pick up an energy drink. Well of course I HAD to pick the right one. There are so many out there these days that I'm never really sure if I'm loading up on caffeine, ginseng, or just sucking down a small orange soda (those 180's are a little suspect in my book). Now for my money, it doesn’t get any better than Monster. I am COMPLETELY INSANE for 4-5 hours. Not only is the can massive, but after 3 sips your heart starts mixing and re-mixing its beats. That can is POTENT.

But they didn't have Monster. It just wasn’t fair. I was just about to settle and grab the generic Red Bull (which in my opinion should only be used with vodka) when a new brand caught my eye.

"Full Throttle."

Being completely out of it and a little on the hysterical side, I started laughing. I mean with a name like that, there are only a few ways to promote your product. I instantly thought of this commercial:

THE SETTING is a Motocross Raceway somewhere in the bowels of New Jersey. A line of bikers are revving their engines at the starting line. Enter STARTER. He is an obese man of 40 in a wife-beater and jean-shorts. He holds a “Full Throttle” energy drink in his hand. He stands and stares off into space for a moment. Out of nowhere, he whips out a butterfly knife and punctures a hole near the bottom of the can, screaming wildly as he makes the incision. He quickly turns to the racers and starts yelling.

STARTER: FULL THROTTLE BABY YEAH!

(He shotguns the drink)

All of the racers take off as dirt flies everywhere and three or four bikers in the back burst into flames. As the bikers round the first turn, four hot chicks in bikinis come out of nowhere with bazookas. They fire on the participants, blowing up 13 bikers. Cut back to the hot chicks in bikinis. There’s a 5 second pause for a wide-angle cleavage shot. Then the camera zooms out to show the four chicks with “Full Throttle” energy drinks in their hands.

HOT CHICKS: Hot babes just love a Full Throttle man! YEAH!

(The chicks shake up their cans and start spraying each other. Mud wrestling ensues.)

The lead biker flies across the finish line going backwards and pops a wheelie. He slams into one of the walls of the stadium and explodes.

ANNOUNCER: “Full Throttle.” Pause. MAN THOSE CHICKS WERE HOT!

By the way, I’m going to have that idea copyrighted soon. So don’t get any crazy ideas.

So where was I? Oh yeah. I knew when I arrived at the course that I would HAVE to calculate the perfect time to crack open this incredible beverage. Because if I cracked it open too early, I’d probably crash midway through the round and be worthless.

My boss walked by me and saw the can.

“Full Throttle?”

“That’s right.”

“You kids and your energy drinks. We never had that crap when I was caddying.”

Well you didn’t have a lot of things back then. Like condoms. Think about how helpful those things would’ve been. Probably could’ve saved you a few trips to the hospital.

Now, I TRIED to wait. I really did. I even had the other guys put on Jerry Springer to keep me stimulated. But it wasn't working. So I cracked open the can and started to chug. FULL THROTTLE, BITCHES!

By the time Jerry’s first guest flashed the crowd I had finished the drink, and by the time the boyfriend started throwing punches, I was asleep. Whoa now people. ASLEEP? This is an ENERGY drink. How am I falling asleep? Although, I suppose if there isn’t any gas in your tank to begin with, punching the throttle won’t do anything anyway.

I think it was something like 30 minutes later that somebody kicked my foot, signifying that I was finally called out on a loop. And I guess that energy drink was a sleeper of sorts because as soon as I started wetting my towel the ol' adrenaline starts PUMPING. “Full Throttle” acted like a turbo-charger on a street racer because all of a sudden I was FOCUSED. I was in a Zen-like state of hyperactivity. Wherever I wanted to go, I was there already. Much like a squirrel on crack. I coudn’t slow down. It was the most amazing thing. I don't know what was in that drink, but it was AWESOME.

If I didn’t have that drink, I don’t know WHAT I would’ve done, because today I would be caddying for two rich assholes that none of the other caddies EVER wanted to work with. Let me put it this way: I was flawless the whole round and ran absolutely EVERYWHERE. They never had to wait for a club, and I never slowed down. I still don't understand how I pulled that off, but WHATEVER. They were STILL picky. Even at my absolute best, they still found things to complain about. I mean, it wasn't ME they were complaining about, but the fact that they still found things to bitch about just illustrated how completely EMPTY their lives must be.

I was caddying for a husband and wife. The wife, for reasons I will never understand, liked to hold onto her clubs long after she was done using them. This meant that after she hit her shot, she would ignore my outstretched arm and walk away with the club in her hand. And with two bags, this puts me a little behind because normally people get the idea after the 4th or 5th hole that they’re supposed to take a few clubs with them to keep things moving. So when she just walked away, that meant I had to hustle even more to get over to her husband in time. And then of course I had to leave him as he’s hitting to get back to HER to give her her NEXT club. I felt bad because I really wanted to get to know the husband a little more, you know? I wanted to try and dispel any thoughts I might have about him being an asshole. But alas, those nasty little generalizations just stayed and stayed.

These people really WERE awful. They never said thank you for any of the things I did. And yes, I suppose I do work in a field where “thank-you’s” are never actually REQUIRED. But these people didn’t even TALK to me the whole round. To them, I was simply a walking coat rack that would hand them their clubs and move around the course faster than they could.

And I was SO much faster. I was kicking their ASSES.

The husband also threw his clubs. Often. Now I don’t mind picking them up, but come on man. After you do it ONCE and notice that you’ve chewed up the green, STOP. These greens are immaculate. Or, at least they WERE before your inconsiderate ass decided to throw a tantrum and make a few huge marks that will take weeks and weeks to repair. I would think that would be enough to make somebody think twice about throwing a club again. But no.

To make matters worse, this guy also sounded like Yosemite Sam whenever he got really mad. So I was never sure if I should take him seriously when he got angry. Although, he did growl. And “growling” never connotates “happy.”

“Razzle-frazzle-frackin-fricken!”

“Sure thing sir. Here’s your putter.”

“OOO! You! You-frackin--”

Right back at you slick.

On the 8th hole, another twosome decided to join up. This of course gave me an opportunity to see how the other caddie was doing. Because one of the perks of caddying is that you're automatically considered a brother once you put on a bib. So I wanted to share some stories from the round thus far.

From what he was telling me, things weren't going too well.

Now, I’m not saying I’m the shit. But I was definitely hopped-up on “Full Throttle” and was moving faster than EVERYBODY. So of course when I see this other caddie taking his time, I’m not very sympathetic when he tells me how poorly his players are treating him. But one thing he said did disturb me a bit.

The other caddie was also working for a husband-wife combo. During the round, the husband insisted that the caddie NOT give his wife a lot of clubs because she’s AWFUL, and the husband couldn't take it anymore. So okay, the caddie follows orders.

Well the wife starts getting a little pissed because she wants to keep playing, but she can’t seem to get her hands on any of the clubs that she needs. So midway through the round, the wife comes over to the caddie and says, “Now listen. I know we’re CONFUSING you, but I would like some clubs too.”

Now, at the time, I was more interested in seeing how many dust particles I could dodge than listen to one of the other caddies' stories. But now I’m thinking: wow. That could easily happen to ME. I could be busting my ass and some rich prick who just decides he “wants to” could say something like that. I don’t really know how I’d react. Because yeah, I’m in somewhat of a submissive position being a caddie, but I don’t know if I could count to 10 and think of bunnies to keep my customer-service record in tact.

I’d probably say something to the effect of: “Sir, I’m sorry your wife thinks you have a small penis and is currently getting her rocks off with the pool boy, but I’m doing the best job that I can. If you’re not happy with the job I’m doing, simply call in to the pro shop and request another caddie. That’s right. Take out that rather LARGE phone you’re currently using to stuff your tighty-whities and stop wasting my time. Because I’m done with you.”

Yeah. I suppose that’s a very friendly way of handling the situation. Friendly, but firm. I like that.