|Current mood:|| rejuvenated|
|Current music:||Ug, the Musical|
O, the Gall of One Golfer
The theme of my last two entries of mock-entries has retired, but may make a comeback in the not to distant future...
Yesterday was a crusade of laymivity. But it was, in fact, a fun time.
I decided to go mini golfing with the ol' gang of Breesha, Jo', Adamo, and Kerry at Golf 'n' Stuff.
So we arrive (Adam screeching and whining). We are greeted with masses of giggling, wheezing, glasses-taped-in-the-middle schoolboys, a yippin' and a hollerin' while playing grungy air-hockey and a hearty round of DDR. I swear, you could smell the acne.
So we wade through the sea sniveling creatures (one was seriously playing a Razor Scooter TM Simulator) past the arcade, and make our way to the outdoor golfin' pay booth.
Now the five of us approach her (the booth lady), saying we want to play a game of golf. Potent Juicy Fruit gnashing between her teeth, she lays out four clubs and balls, and a four-player scorecard.
RYAN: (Tapping on the glass window) "Ma'am...ma'am, there's uhhh, well there's five of us."
In an unexpected turn of events, I wind up clubless, ball-less, and without a spot on the scorecard. After going over the facts a few times with Ms. Heavy Eyeshadow, she finally gives me my stuff and a personal scorecard.
So we get goin'. It's Hole 2, Par 3, and Adam manages to pull 10 strokes. That's a sextuple bogey, for those rascals keeping score at home.
Suddenly we spot a soda machine, $2.50 a bottle. Keep this following banter of wits in the back of your mind for now:
KERRY: (Being beautiful) "Hmm...I want a soda."
BRETT: (Wearing sunglasses and singing Last Five Years under his breath) "Trust me, don't buy that soda."
KERRY: (Being gorgeous) "I'm buyin' that soda."
And on a separate note,
ADAM: "God damn animals! I hate minorities! (Something foreign)!"
Joel and I are already gettin' pissed, and Adam knows it. In an effort to redeem himself, Adam spots a nearby plastic purple lightpost, all cute 'n' purty-like, and without hesitation begins to club it. With his putter.
The huge racket immediately spurs the attention of two employees up on a hill (a dazed black man in a faded blue cap and a husky Latino sporting a large ladder) who wheel around sharply and point at us. Suddenly a helicopter* lands over on Hole 5 and a gigantic, Mexican Vin Diesel jet packs** out, and the menace's blood begins to boil.
It is at this point we fast-walk our petrified lil' tushes to safety.
In the comfort of Hole 11, Kerry opens her soda and takes a few relieved sips of carbonated love.
ADAM: "I'm having a sip."
KERRY: (Being a goddess) "Alright, save some for me."
ADAM: (After a few gulps, begins to inexplicably laugh violently, and soda explodes out of his nostrils like friggin' Vesuvius. After the final spewed ashes settle, a massive, steady lava flow of beige mucus bubbles from yonder face.)
BRETT: (Sighing, flexing his pecs) "Told ya' not to buy the soda." (Exeunt.)
So culminates mini golf.***
*There was no helicopter.
**The jet pack was in actuality the gentlemen's overalls.