Monday, August 08, 2005

Hey, It's Your World Buddy...I'm Just Visiting

Man. There’s so much to talk about. I just got home and all I want to do right now is bitch and moan. So in other words, I’m just dying to get to the keyboard and write a little ditty for all my friends out there.

So what’s been happening with you guys?

Hmm. Wow. Well that’s just great. Me? Oh, well I caddied for a complete dickhead on Wednesday. Wait. Maybe that’s a little mean. By “dickhead” I mean “couldn’t please a $4.75 hooker with a $1 million dollar set of gem-plated Victoria Secret panties.” Yeah. That’s a little more “P.C.”

So there was this member-guest on Wednesday at this other golf course and the Caddie Master over there really needed some help, so me and some of the other go-to Mod-Squad boys showed up ready to pimp out the joint and show this world what caddying was all about.

And then the assignments came out.

I was paired with the biggest asshole this side of the Mississippi. He was about three seconds from dismissing the use of caddies altogether and about two seconds from rolling around in his own fecal matter. All of the regular caddies at this course knew I had a horrible player and tried to show their sympathy.

“Aww man.”

“Good luck with that one.”

“Additional generic sympathetic caddie-comment Tom.”

They’d pat me on the shoulder and offer words of advice, but I had no choice but to die a little inside. I mean how am I supposed to relate to this guy? I have NOT rolled around in fecal matter and I could get an AMAZING amount of use out of a $1 million dollar set of gem-plated Victoria Secret panties (I’ll let you do with that comment what you will). How in the world was I to get along with this human TURD of a man? What could we connect on?

The answer? Nothing.

When I first met him he didn’t even open his mouth.

“Hello there. I’m Tom. I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Look caddie up and down, frown and drop half a deuce in your pants, and walk over to tell a dirty joke to your partner. Yeah. I’d say that initial introduction went over well.

His partner was too busy being mortally offended that he was being FORCED to take a caddie, so any MEANINGFUL conversation with him was thrown right out the window from the get-go.

“Just so you know, I’m USED to carrying my own bags. I really don’t need you.”

You know what? That’s good sir. Too bad you’re TAKING A FREAKIN’ CADDIE TODAY. TOUGH TITTIES.

So I’m working with two players who would rather carry their own bags and complain about me behind my back than pay for my services. Well, no. I’m sure they’d rather complain about me TO MY FACE. You know, I’m tempted to ask people like that what exactly happened to them in their life that turned their souls into writhing, puss-spewing sewers of human emotion. I mean seriously. If you’re filthy rich and have absolutely nothing to worry about for the rest of your life, what is there to complain about? If taking the time to FIND something to complain about whets your proverbial palate, then I guess go for it. But there has GOT to be more to life than complaining all the time. Right?

You’re probably sitting there wondering, “Hey, why were these guys assholes again? You haven’t really shown any supporting evidence.” Well it’s funny you should ask. I was just wondering the same thing. I mean, it HAS been since Wednesday. EONS have come and gone since then. But let’s see if I can remember a few of the reasons why.

Firstly, the member I was working with was one of those players who checked and DOUBLE checked his opponents’ score after every hole.

“You got a 5 there? Are you sure? One off the tee, two in the bunker, three out of the rough…and then what?”

“I two putted.”

“Right. Wait. You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ground your club in the bunker? Because that’s a penalty.”

“No.”

“No you didn’t or NO you don’t think that’s a penalty? Because I’ll tell you something, it IS a penalty. And you would be wise to brush up on your USGA rulebook knowledge before you play in such a serious event EVER again.”

“Why don’t you just impale yourself with the fucking flagstick?”

“Will you help? I hate my life.”

I would also be looking back from the fairway as the foursome was teeing off and of COURSE my player would be the one to step away from his ball and gesture to the rest of the foursome to move “somewhere else” because apparently the players were “in his line of sight.” Come on. If you’re THAT picky about where people stand, I think you’re just LOOKING for something to blame your bad shot on. But hey, that’s just my opinion. What do I know?

Then there was the infamous “found club” incident on the 8th green. One of the other foursome’s had forgotten a wedge in the rough just off of the putting surface and one of my anal-retentive players (although who wants to have ANYTHING leaking out of their anus) happened to see the mystery club and INSISTED that I pick it up and deal with it. Well now. I’m carrying two bags. We’re playing in a tournament. I’m not going to put this new club into one of my player’s bags and risk a penalty. Because Lord knows after all of the interrogation and harassment thus far, the other two players have got to be DYING to call some kind of penalty on my boys. So I asked the other two players if THEY would like to help me out by carrying the club in the cart until after the 9th hole where they could drop it off in the clubhouse and be done with it.

Well no. THEY didn’t want to take care of the club either, because THEY were afraid of MY players calling a penalty on THEM for holding an extra club. I tell ya, there is NO love lost between these boys. And while they were having this little debate on the 9th tee-box I’m waiting by the cart to receive the final verdict. Well of course this means that I’m falling behind in my caddie duties because it’s too late to get in front of them and into a forecaddie position (strike a pose). So NOW I have to double-time it just to get out in front of my players and avoid any MORE criticism.

By the way: did you know that pigs have 30-minute orgasms? Just thought I’d throw that out there.

Pause.

Because if MY players knew this, they may look into trying to make at least ONE MAMMAL on the planet happy.

Pause.

And don’t read into that comment too much. I’m not really trying to insinuate ANYTHING. Well, no. I suppose I am. And I’m sorry. That’s an insult to pigs. They don’t even WEAR million-dollar pairs of gem-plated Victoria Secret panties. So I guess my boys have NO chance of getting lucky.

Pause.

Would “raping” pigs be an option? Holy crap. Did I just go there? I hope nobody from the EPA or some group of over-protective farmer’s stumble across this website. I mean I’m only trying to help my players. Old-heartless-DICKFACES need lovin’ too ya know.

So anyway, the two “cool” guys playing in this little hoot-nanny finally agree to take the club for ONE hole in their cart (by the way, the club is not even TOUCHING their bags). And then I found $20. Oh yeah. Now THAT story just got a whole hell of lot more interesting.

I also appreciated the random dumping my player decided to undertake during his round. Every time he picked up a Gatorade, a candy bar, a Margarita in a Styrofoam cup, whatever. As soon as he finished one of these items, he’d walk with it for an undetermined amount of time until he felt good and ready to litter. Because let’s face it, you really DO have to be in the mood to litter. I might as well have been holding a pooper-scooper. He’d walk right by garbage cans, pretend to be oblivious and then throw the items on the ground just to test me. I mean I have no proof, but what ELSE could he have been doing that for? His crappy HEALTH?

Now, the round wasn’t ALL bad. By the 18th hole the other two players’ wanted me to chug a beer with them on the tee-box. Yeah. Like THAT will ever happen. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to do it, but the minute that sweet sweet nectar touched my lips I’d be sitting at this computer searching for another job instead of talking to YOU good people. So no thanks. But if you’re still interested in buying me a few beers, let’s talk after the round is over. No, really. I’m serious.

Oh, I almost forgot the biggest kicker of all. The Caddie Master had mentioned to me before the round began that yes, all of the caddies “dislike” the player I’d be caddying for, but the boss believed that it was only because the other caddies weren’t doing a good enough job. He believed that a decent caddie would be compensated “appropriately.” And oh my LORD was he right. I received a remarkable rose-scented tip for carrying two bags. Totally blew me away. I mean, I could sense by the 15th or 16th hole I had earned their respect, but I didn’t think I’d be walking away with money to spare. So for all of my bitching and moaning, I would certainly go through that again. And oh yeah. I would DEFINITELY make the same comments about the pigs. Because let’s face it, if you’re capable of enduring a 30-minute orgasm (as uncomfortable as that might be), you could withstand an infinite amount of insults and jokes at your expense. It’s kind of like guys who can afford to buy a Ferrari. That small penis thing? Probably true. Do they care? No. They have a FERRARI.

3 comments:

Shanks said...

JB, Sorry i wasn't there to bitch-slap the dickhead for you ..... but then you probably wouldn't have been compensated very well. Sounds like a very good life lesson. See, what happened to you is what people in an office job have to come to grips with .... how much shit are you willing to take & for how much compensation. Turns out that we all have a price.

Jam Boy said...

Scary lesson there shanks. And as far as an "office job" is concerned, I can certainly empathize with you guys. Seems like you just can't get away from the assholes out there.

But I think I'm starting to learn a very valuable trait of a senior caddie: control of your players. Because the more confident you become as a caddie, the more apt players are to follow your every command. There are many senior caddies I know who have their PLAYERS raking bunkers and replacing divots for them. It's insane. So while the guy from this post was a HUGE dickhead, by the end of the round he had simmered down and was directing all of his anger at the other players. I seemed bullet-proof. I think with a little more practice I could handle just about anyone. We'll see.

But I'll say it again, there are WAY more perks if you get set up with the right "office job." I hope one day I can find a niche somewhere in that arena. As of right now...ehhh...not so much. But someday.

dave said...

Sounds like my entire career in education except for the compensation.