A friend called me around 12pm and suggested that it was too nice a day to not be striking the white ball. I agreed, but our 2 regular courses are booked up. So we try a different course. One we played at numerous times when we first started playing, but hadn't been there in a while. We pull up and notice immediately, the parking lot is empty, aside from 3 fatass slobs with jorts and t-shirts. They are talking amongst themselves and seem to have just finished their daily chores around the course. We walk into the shop and notice no one has signed the book in a few hours. Grab a pack of cashews, sunflower seeds and bottle of water. We then drive around to the putting green and putt a few balls around trying to get a feel for the new bent greens.
After putting for around 10 minutes, we start to walk back to our cart to make our way down to #1. Just as we sitting in the cart, the 3 lard asses come from around the building, skipping the putting green and range and drive straight for the 1st tee box. We drive up to the blue boxes and figure they are going to let us hit first and get ahead. After all, we are 2 and they are 3. Without saying a word, (or acknowledging us) they proceed to tee off from the whites. The first two each hit 2 balls, but the last guy, (the godforsaken lefty) hits 4. Not a gotdamn one lands anywhere near the fairway. While trying not to notice their drives, I whisper to my buddy that they are probably going to let us hit also, then let us finish the hole and get ahead. No, they walk straight to their carts and take off for their balls.
It's at this time that I realize they are going to be dicksuckers, but I'm holding out hope that they will let us play through before #2. After they tee up on number 2, again hitting multiple shots each, my blood pressure is starting to rise. I miss a 3 foot par putt just as the southpaw puts his 3rd tee shot into the drink. I've had enough. My buddy tells me just to relax and not worry about them. After all, it's a beautiful day and we have all afternoon. He suggest that we just take our time, laugh at them and we'll pass them on the turn when they go in for their beer and hotdogs. I agree to his idea, although I'm quietly stewing and waiting for "the" opportunity to present itself.
My buddy, he's a quiet guy. Very laid back. Doesn't care for confrontation. Obviously not going to be comfortable with me explaining to these slobs, the rules of golf. So I just keep quiet and try to keep from visualizing me slapping the fuck out of the lefty. We march on. Few great shots, few good shots, few bad shots. Normal day on the course. We get to 9, and as I'm lining up my approach shot, I can't help but notice the assholes forgetting to make the left turn to the clubhouse while continuing onto #10. My blood pressure starts to rise again.
As I'm walking back to the cart, I've made my mind up that I'm going to hit into them on #10. As I'm speeding over to the tee box, my buddy says he's thirsty and asked me to stop by the clubhouse. I know he's not thirsty, and I know that he's trying to buy a few minutes to a) let them get ahead and b) keep me from making an ass out of myself. So I drive up and we spend about 15 minutes before driving down to #10. As we pull up, I notice the fucksticks dicking around in the trees about 75 yards from the #11 tee box.
So we play our hole, both end with a bogey and drive around to the 11th tee. And who is that in the motherfucking trees about 75 yards in front of us? The fucking southpaw with a gotdamn ball retriever digging for balls. I've had it. I can't take anymore. I tee up, smash a drive down the left side of the fairway and end up hitting the branch of a pine tree, knocking the ball down after about a 270 yard drive. My buddy plays a fucking iron to keep from hitting into them and ends up about 100 yards behind me. As we are driving up to his ball, the sloth comes out of the woods, drives straight up the area of my ball and stops. He gets his fat ass off his cart, looks at a ball, then promptly pulls out an iron and blades it across the ground about 80 yards. I immediately tell my friend, "if he hit my ball, I'm going to spit on him and punch him in the windpipe". Being the person he is, he says the guy probably also had a ball there.
They finish the hole. John hits. We drive up to where my ball is suppose to be, and the motherfucker is gone. So against my John's wishes, I ask the guy if he may have hit the wrong ball. He says no. I again reinstate that my ball was in the general area of the ball that he hit, and ask him to look at his ball to make sure. He again says he didn't hit my ball. I ask him what kind of ball he is playing, because I'm playing a Callaway Solaire. He get's pissed and says he doesn't know because he has an assortment of balls. He then snatches the zipper back on his bag and shows a me a bunch of nasty ass balls, most of which are marked with a red ring around the ball (which doesn't surprise me). Then HIS golfing partner says, "Frank, here's a Callaway right here in your cup holder". Fat Frank looks at the ball, which is a sparkling white Callaway Solaire, and says he just found that one in the woods.
I'm at a loss for words. 1000 different solutions to the problem race through my mind.....but I stand speechless. After what seemed like 5 minutes of silence, the lefty gets back in his cart and drives away. John, knowing I'm about to melt down, throws a ball down and says no drop, just hit it. We finish the hole and get back in the cart. As we are driving to the next hole, I tell John that if I get close to the guy again, we are going to have words. He again asks me to stay calm and just finish the round. Even suggest that he'd pay for my round if I would just leave the guy alone.
So we play a few more holes, waiting and watching on each hole, and come to my favorite hole. #14, the reachable par 5. My first shot is a cut, leaving me a short 205 into the downhill green for my second shot. Knowing I can hit the 3w a good 225 if I catch it clean, I opt for the 3 iron figuring I can keep it low and run it down, possibly onto the green. So I hit the stinger, exactly how I wanted to hit it, but a little right of the flag. The ball hits twice and starts running. Just as it gets to the green, I see it pop straight up in the air and die on the fringe. I'm not mad, because I'll be chipping for eagle off the fringe, but I'm wondering why it hit to bounce straight up and die. John says it's probably a sprinkler head that didn't go all the way back down.
After he hits his 3rd onto and off the backside, we start walking down toward the green. Just as I get to my ball, I find the reason it shot up in the air and hung on the fringe instead of rolling up on for an eagle putt. Just behind my ball lies a left hand pitching wedge. The gods have smiled upon me. Immediately I know who this shitty club belongs to....Fat Frank. I look for him, and they are just going over the hill towards the next green after hitting their (multiple) tee shots. As John walks around the green towards his ball, I quickly pick the p wedge up and snap it's iron shaft into 3 pieces. I stick 2 of the pieces in the ground near the cart path. I then break the head off and throw it about 50 feet into the open end of a concrete drainage ditch leading underground. Fuck Frank. I pitch up close and tap in for the bird. I feel good.
We drive up to the next tee box, both laughing about the experience and hit our shots. As we drive down to John's ball, I notice the lefty coming back over the hill from the direction of the green driving right at us. He pulls up next to me and ask if we saw a wedge down near the green. I look him squarely in the eyes and say, "No sir, but if I had seen it down there I would have left it, because we don't touch clubs or golf balls on a golf course that don't belong to us". Without saying a word, he drives off. About 5 minutes later he drove back by us holding the broken handle in his hand. Never looked at us. Didn't even finish the last 2 holes. As far as I know, he drove straight to the clubhouse and left.
I haven't felt more exhilarated in a long time.
And Frank, if you happen across this post, FUCK YOU!!!!! You're lucky I broke that club instead of beating your ass to death with it, you fat fucking piece of pig shit. I hope to open my newspaper in the morning and see that you have died in a house fire.
38 Replies
5385 Views