Barnyard Golf

Did you know that urine is actually a highly effective facial cleanser?

I myself have never been a huge fan of the golden shower, but there was quite a discussion in the caddie room this morning about it. Apparently dousing your face in piss once a day does WONDERS for your complexion. Although, the caddie who brought it up looked like he had pink eye in BOTH EYES. So I guess when you partake in “bringing on the piss” (Here’s to you, Dane Cook), wear some protective GOGGLES or suffer the consequences.

Oh well. Something to keep in mind I guess.

Although the sheet was well peppered with players and possible loops, I ended up sitting around for quite a while today. I was about to give up. Not a big deal, but I have been looking for some more inspiration to write.

And then it happened. A foursome added on and I was the last caddie in the yard. The funny thing was, they all wanted to walk. So what happened? One of the staff guys grabbed some weird attachment thingy and transformed the cart from a two-bag sissy into a four-bag colossus. The foursome would now be able to walk. And I was destined to ride.

But wait. I’ve never caddied like this before. Yes, of course I drive over to each player so they can get the club they need. That part is obvious. But to some extent the tip you receive at the end of the round is a reflection of how hard you work. If I’m sitting on my ass for 5 hours while these guys are sweating their balls off running back and forth trying to get the clubs they need, should they really be tipping me? I mean, what was I really doing for them?

Well let’s see. Cue that wacky Deliverance-esque banjo music!

“Now sons, hit the ball as hard as you can in THAT direction, okay?”

(In unison) “Sure thing Paw!”

WOOOOOOOOWEEEEE!!!!

Skull. Shank. Duff.

(Banjo music)

“Drive that cart over here!”

“No wait! I got it! Don’t go out of your way! I want to sweat my balls off for no good reason today!”

“Hey Tom! I just skanked my 3-wood straight up in the air and I DON’T NEED ANOTHER CLUB!”

WEEEEWWOOOOOO!!!

Dirt flying everywhere. Somewhere a woman is screaming.

Despite my belief that I would need to be whipping back and forth across the fairway, these guys hustled. I never seemed to veer away from the middle of the fairway. They’d run up, grab 2-10 clubs out of somebody’s bag (oftentimes the wrong one), and then run to their next shot.

“Glasses” was the first of the four. Glasses liked to hold the golf club like a pool cue and swing as hard as he could off of his back foot. Not surprisingly, he KILLED his tee shots (when he didn’t completely miss them) and possessed an unbelievable short game (when he didn’t hit a pitch shot short AGAIN into another greenside bunker). Oh yeah. He also liked to squeal like a pig when he mishit a shot. His face would tense up and every muscle in his body (including his penis) would flex simultaneously.

OOOOOOOWEEEEEEE!!!!

“Shades” was a born hustler, and he was by far the most optimistic of the group. He would either take a 4 foot divot or hit the purest shot you’ve ever seen in your life, stick it 2 feet from the flagstick and proceed to 6-putt, due to his complete lack of feel. He was a beast. The other players nicknamed him “Steel-hands McCloud.”

“So Tom? What’s the line?”

I’d point.

“Okay. Now where’s the Steel-hands McCloud line?”

I’d point at the center of the cup.

“But Tom. I’m 30 feet away.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The last two players were father and son. The son was very relaxed and acted as if he was walking around a museum rather than playing golf. He was quite indifferent to anything going on around him. The father, on the other hand, was the player in the group. He was around a 7 or 8 handicap, and HIS super-power was undoubtedly his ability to come up with something funny to say in every situation.

“Hey, Dad? Is that group behind us catching up?”

“Why shouldn’t they son? They only started TOMORROW.”

(Banjo music)

OOOOOOOWWWEEEEE!! FUCKERNUTTER!!

And the cursing only amplified itself as the round progressed.

“Help me Tom Cruise!”

FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK!!!

“Need a club over there?”

(Ball whizzes past my face)

SHIIIIIITTTT!!

“Hey Dad look! A bird!”

“What are you, retarded?”

OWEEEEEEEE!!

“STOP MISHITTING SHOTS DUMBASS!”

“I think I have a hernia in my penis!”

And then somehow by the grace of 8 pound 3 ounce baby Jesus, the round came to an end. Some days I just get lucky I guess.