There comes a time in every young man’s life when he has to make that crucial decision.
To get a job or to find a rich old lady?
I’m starting to lean towards the latter with every hour that crawls by as I sit at what has essentially become my life – a two foot by four foot chunk of metal and wood equipped with internet and a posture destroying chair. Mom would be so proud.
This past Saturday, however, I was able to forget all about the previous week of staring at a computer screen for 45 hours and hit the links (what does that even mean???) for the company golf outing. Now, let me preface this with a disclaimer of sorts.
I am not good.
I didn’t golf in high school, instead choosing the cross-country and track path of life and all the homosexually-oriented calamity that comes with it. For those of you that have run on a team, high school or college, you know what I mean. I missed the boat carrying the serious, goal-driven golfers, intent on qualifying for the PGA Tour (guys, c’mon, you’re not even good), and instead hopped on the “Dress Well, Slice Well” Express. If there’s one thing that I can truthfully claim, though, it’s that I am usually the best dressed golfer out on the course, obviously barring Rickie Fowler.
So on Saturday, my attire landed me a pairing with my boss because he “wanted my style to rub off on him.” As disturbing and sexually horrifying as that sounded, he should have known that the clothes I was wearing aren’t sold in the “Big & Tall” section of Men’s Warehouse.
Hey, don’t fault me for my realism.
Once out on the course I quickly realized I was the best one in the group because I could actually get the ball off the ground. The rest of my coworkers (Can I say that? I’ve been working here for three weeks and I’m three weeks closer to committing suicide than when I started. So I guess I can say that.) were stealing the groundskeeper’s job and cutting the grass for him. I felt like I was watching a pitcher’s duel between Derek Lowe and Greg Maddux with all the groundballs I was seeing.
I was hoping that perhaps they just needed to work out a few kinks in their games, but the interval by which they would have done that overlapped with the time interval in which the Coors in the back of the cart was beginning to take effect.
They showed steady improvement through the first few holes, and even carded better scores than me through holes six through ten. But, like the sinking Titanic in the cold, dark North Atlantic waters, destruction was inevitable.
Side note: If you made the effort to click on the above link, you would have clearly seen that National Geographic is a terribly unreliable source for historical information. At no point during that animated representation of the Titanic’s descent did I see a massive wooden plank – WHICH WAS DEFINITELY LARGE ENOUGH FOR TWO PEOPLE, LIKE WHAT THE H%$@ ROSE – float away from the wreckage. Just ask MythBusters.
Sorry about that, I allowed a few repressed thoughts to escape for a second there. Highly unprofessional. Let us return to the point of this blog.
The self-implosion of my boss, whom we’ll call George for the sake of this story and for the safety of my employment, was by far the most entertainingly-woven narrative I have ever witnessed on a golf course.
It can all be summed up on his second shot on the par four 14th Hole, roughly 120 yards from the pin. By now, George is not only “half in the wrapper” but he might as well be using the wrapper as a sleeping bag. I pulled up to his ball – thank God he had the sense to let me drive – and he stumbled out of the cart and began clanging clubs together in his bag searching for his weapon of choice. I noticed he was having a tough time keeping his tongue in his mouth so I suggested he try his pitching wedge. “This is why I hired you, Jake.”
He sauntered over to his Pinnacle 4, loosened his pants another belt loop and placed his cigar on the grass next to him. Up until this point, he had habitually put the cigar down next to his ball, swung, placed the stogie back in his mouth and ONLY THEN would he look to see where his ball went (usually very, very left).
This time, I could tell he meant business. He’d just hit his first straight drive of the day and was not about to blow his chance at getting on the green in two. He swung, missed the ball by about a foot and came back in the cart and sat down. I drove away.
Now, no literary magician could ever clearly encapsulate all that happened in those ten seconds. From my vantage point in the cart, I was looking at this massive, hulking man with his bright yellow suspenders and orange shirt (now you see why he needed a wardrobe intervention, considering he looked the part of Rodney Dangerfield’s Al from Caddyshack) standing over this little tiny white ball. In his bear-like hands was the tiniest, most delicate club in the bag – the pitching wedge – which he wielded like a baseball bat. He took a few “Yikes”-worthy practice swings before lining up with the ball and taking a mammoth hack.
The most beautiful part of all of this was that he could miss the ball by as much as he did and then actually think he’d made solid contact. He got in the cart with excited anticipation, waiting for me drive over to the green so he could see where his ball was. I obliged and dropped another Pinnacle 4 on the rough behind the green when he wasn’t looking.
All in a day’s work.
This blog and all of its previous entries have been completely satirical in their intent. All names have been changed, but to be honest - half of the people you've come to know and love were completely made up. Also, much of my content was made up to entertain you wonderful readers because, let's be honest, who wants to read about me actually doing work at work.