The Saturday plan was simple - a morning round of polar bear golf followed by an afternoon nap and the consumption of an extra-large meat lovers pizza. I was even going to spend some quality time catching up with my xbox. A simple plan - easy enough to achieve.
Wanting to wake up fresh for the early morning round, I opted to stay in Friday night. "I'll just have a couple of beers and play some Gears of War," I thought to myself. Well, a couple of beers turned into 6 or 7 as the Gears of War play went into the wee hours of the night. Breckenridge Brewery's 471 is a strong and hoppy beer - delicious, but it packs a bit of a wollop. I woke up at 7am with my clothes still on and my bedroom TV blaring. Confused, I frantically attempted to make sense of the situation. "What time is it? Do I have to go to work today? Why am I awake so early? Why does my head hurt? Why was I watching cartoons before I passed out?"
Slowly, I gathered my thoughts and composed myself to the point where I could get ready for golf. After adding several layers of clothing, and making repeated trips to the lavatory ( hoppy beer evacuation procedure in effect), I departed for Bos's pad, where it turns out his Friday evening plans took an unsuspected turn as well. Bos wasn't just hungover when I got to his place, he was still drunk (making my decision to jump in the car with him all the more wise) . It turns out after eating his dinner and opening a fresh brew, Bos settled into his couch and prepared for a quiet evening. He then recieved a text message from Brett calling him to Whitlows, and the quiet evening was dead before it ever really started. The two of them sat at Whitlows and drank Sierra Nevadas like it was their job - adding a couple of tequila shots to the mix.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Ricky Bobby at Talledaga, Bos tried his best to make me ill. My reslove was strong and despite a couple of dicey moments, no cookies were tossed. As we stepped out of the car at Old Hickory Golf Cub the temerature was a balmy 35 degrees. Polar Bear Golf in action. Bos threw the entire contents of his trunk into his golf bag while contiunig to talk drunken nonsense. "I think they are calling for rain," he slured as he pulled an umbrella from his car, "Yellow bunny, banana runs the eskimo balloon pants." At this point I decided Bos had not over-exaggerated the number of beers consumed. We met up with Brett (wearing his ski-pants) at the practice range, and while Bos appeared still drunk, Brett was in full hangover. "I threw up last night," he revealed painfully. "I had to dig the chunks out of the sink with my fingers." Yucky.
This is the second weekend of polar bear golf, and I'm becoming a fan. If you can get used to the cold (a pair of weather soft golf gloves are vital), polar bear golf is really worth the effort. We had the course completely to ourselves, so there was no worry about pace of play. If you want to hit 3 shots into the green for practice - go for it. If you want to tee up another ball because you topped your first shot 40 yards directly to the left - do it up. If you want to take 6 shots to hit out of the bunker - not only can you live that dream, but you don't even have to worry about offending anyone when you let fly a string of obscenities.
Of course you don't play golf in the winter to post record low scores, and this round was nothing to write home about. But a good time was had by all, and we even had some great Bos moments:
(leaving the practice range, before the round even starts) "I am going to suck today"
(after hitting his second bad drive despite out-driving Brett on his previous three) "I can't drive for $%#& today!"
Now, it is at this point in the story where our adventure takes a bit of a turn. With the girlfriend out of town for the weekend, my Saturday plan was similar to Friday - laying low, playing videogames and eating a goddamn pizza. We finished our round at 2PM, which was going to leave me plenty of time to order my pizza, eat half, nap, eat the other half, play videogames, then nap again - but then Brett threw a wrinkle into those plans. He decided to play a couple of more holes. Bos and I were both drained so we declined the additional holes, and instead opted to grab a beer while Brett finished up. We could have just gone into the clubhouse, grabed a couple of beers and watched golf - but then Brett mentioned seeing a Hooters on the way back to the highway. That was pretty much all she wrote.
To be fair, we were just going to grab a couple of beers while waiting for Brett to finish. Hooters of Woodbridge has some talent, and our lovely server managed to sweet talk us into a pitcher of Budwiser All American Ale. The beer was hardly anything special (very malty for an ale), but she was involved in a sales contest and being the good hearted guys we are, we wanted to help out.
We are also a bunch of suckers.
Brett showed up around 3:15 looking tired and disheveled. "I feel like crap. I'm so hot. Are any of you guys hot." He then looked up at the waitress, his eyes dejected and weak, "it's so hot in here. I'm so tired. We're going to need some curly fries...and another pitcher." 4 hours and several pitchers later, we pried ourselves from the seats and set sail for our next destination; the Paper Moon Gentleman's club (we can blame Sheabone for planting this mental seed). Somewhere along the way we lost Brett, who later called to say he was passing on the club - and to be honest he didn't miss out on much. Bos and I only stayed for a couple of beers (I didn't even break into my wad of singles), and much to my pleasure I was home in time to order my goddamn pizza. Of course, after eating half of the pizza I passed out on the couch (sometime around 10PM).
Good times, and a good cold weather warm up for Myrtle. 58 Days.
Slowly, I gathered my thoughts and composed myself to the point where I could get ready for golf. After adding several layers of clothing, and making repeated trips to the lavatory ( hoppy beer evacuation procedure in effect), I departed for Bos's pad, where it turns out his Friday evening plans took an unsuspected turn as well. Bos wasn't just hungover when I got to his place, he was still drunk (making my decision to jump in the car with him all the more wise) . It turns out after eating his dinner and opening a fresh brew, Bos settled into his couch and prepared for a quiet evening. He then recieved a text message from Brett calling him to Whitlows, and the quiet evening was dead before it ever really started. The two of them sat at Whitlows and drank Sierra Nevadas like it was their job - adding a couple of tequila shots to the mix.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Ricky Bobby at Talledaga, Bos tried his best to make me ill. My reslove was strong and despite a couple of dicey moments, no cookies were tossed. As we stepped out of the car at Old Hickory Golf Cub the temerature was a balmy 35 degrees. Polar Bear Golf in action. Bos threw the entire contents of his trunk into his golf bag while contiunig to talk drunken nonsense. "I think they are calling for rain," he slured as he pulled an umbrella from his car, "Yellow bunny, banana runs the eskimo balloon pants." At this point I decided Bos had not over-exaggerated the number of beers consumed. We met up with Brett (wearing his ski-pants) at the practice range, and while Bos appeared still drunk, Brett was in full hangover. "I threw up last night," he revealed painfully. "I had to dig the chunks out of the sink with my fingers." Yucky.
This is the second weekend of polar bear golf, and I'm becoming a fan. If you can get used to the cold (a pair of weather soft golf gloves are vital), polar bear golf is really worth the effort. We had the course completely to ourselves, so there was no worry about pace of play. If you want to hit 3 shots into the green for practice - go for it. If you want to tee up another ball because you topped your first shot 40 yards directly to the left - do it up. If you want to take 6 shots to hit out of the bunker - not only can you live that dream, but you don't even have to worry about offending anyone when you let fly a string of obscenities.
Of course you don't play golf in the winter to post record low scores, and this round was nothing to write home about. But a good time was had by all, and we even had some great Bos moments:
(leaving the practice range, before the round even starts) "I am going to suck today"
(after hitting his second bad drive despite out-driving Brett on his previous three) "I can't drive for $%#& today!"
Now, it is at this point in the story where our adventure takes a bit of a turn. With the girlfriend out of town for the weekend, my Saturday plan was similar to Friday - laying low, playing videogames and eating a goddamn pizza. We finished our round at 2PM, which was going to leave me plenty of time to order my pizza, eat half, nap, eat the other half, play videogames, then nap again - but then Brett threw a wrinkle into those plans. He decided to play a couple of more holes. Bos and I were both drained so we declined the additional holes, and instead opted to grab a beer while Brett finished up. We could have just gone into the clubhouse, grabed a couple of beers and watched golf - but then Brett mentioned seeing a Hooters on the way back to the highway. That was pretty much all she wrote.
To be fair, we were just going to grab a couple of beers while waiting for Brett to finish. Hooters of Woodbridge has some talent, and our lovely server managed to sweet talk us into a pitcher of Budwiser All American Ale. The beer was hardly anything special (very malty for an ale), but she was involved in a sales contest and being the good hearted guys we are, we wanted to help out.
We are also a bunch of suckers.
Brett showed up around 3:15 looking tired and disheveled. "I feel like crap. I'm so hot. Are any of you guys hot." He then looked up at the waitress, his eyes dejected and weak, "it's so hot in here. I'm so tired. We're going to need some curly fries...and another pitcher." 4 hours and several pitchers later, we pried ourselves from the seats and set sail for our next destination; the Paper Moon Gentleman's club (we can blame Sheabone for planting this mental seed). Somewhere along the way we lost Brett, who later called to say he was passing on the club - and to be honest he didn't miss out on much. Bos and I only stayed for a couple of beers (I didn't even break into my wad of singles), and much to my pleasure I was home in time to order my goddamn pizza. Of course, after eating half of the pizza I passed out on the couch (sometime around 10PM).
Good times, and a good cold weather warm up for Myrtle. 58 Days.
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