Thursday afternoon, a couple much older coworkers, who frankly I didn’t think realized my existence, bopped into my office with the sort of shit-eating grins that made me momentarily wonder if my bathroom column-writing charade had reached its conclusion.
Fortunately, my secret remains safe, as instead, they invited me to “play some golf” Friday afternoon. When I asked where to meet them, they replied “our track” and told me to meet at one of their homes for a pre-round drink. It was like getting a bid in the real world; a sign I was on my way to acceptance in this place in which I lived but knew hardly anyone, like a freshman year 1000 miles from home.
Friday I show up to work prepared like a PGA caddie. The weather is a little dicey, so I’ve got multiple pullovers, a spare shirt and pants, and two different pairs of golf shoes I’ll select from depending on the level of the downpour. As a surprise, I’ve got 3 Cohibas and a flask of Crown, trying to be the “fun guy” at work without explicitly admitting the likely impossibility that is me making it through an 18 hole round stone cold sober.
I walk to my boss’s home, as instructed, looking like a Caddyshack villain when I see them: my coworkers, wearing athletic shorts and cutoffs like Kenny fucking powers. They, amazingly, are the ones who start laughing hysterically as I wonder if I’ve wandered into the “special” PE class.
“Siblings, what the hell are you wearing? It’s blistering out there” my boss asks as I contemplate what trailer park of a public course these mouth breathers have in store for me.
Then, like a hazy morning filled with instant regret, the sad realization washes over me: these mother fuckers want to go throw frisbees. What followed was the most boring, pathetic excuse for golf imaginable. I’m throwing this welfare dinner plate at a metal basket in what feels like some sort of sad, inner-city playground game. Yet somehow these idiots are loving it, lining up “shots” like this was the gold medal match of the Special Olympics.
I languished through what seemed like an endless back and forth of this nonsense before escaping to the oasis that is the back 9 of our country club. I’m sitting out there wondering what the fuck just happened? How can anyone refer to this plainly idiotic joke of a game as “golf?” Why are people playing it and honeydicking unsuspecting golfers like me into an afternoon of chasing wayward discs through a VERY public woods (I’m pretty sure I saw two hobos fucking). That was not the substance-filled escape I had planned. Where were the drink cart girls? What the fuck was the point?
If you want to play this shit, go ahead. I have the Gary Johnson Libertarian view of other people’s lives: if it doesn’t affect me, I don’t give a fuck what you do. Bedroom included. But how about we start calling shit what it actually is? Disc or frisbee “golf” is not golf. Just because you’re throwing an object at a hole or basket, that doesn’t necessarily mean it warrants the same nomenclature. Is fucking cornhole golf? By this metric, why wouldn’t basketball be?
Coming into my office with promises of an afternoon of golf instead of work, only to be taken to a frisbee “course,” is like her promising a blowie when you get home but actually meaning an outside-the-pants jerk where she stops before completion. Sure, they’re somewhat similar in nature, but nobody is satisfied.
If I’m being unreasonable, or it was irrational to assume “let’s go golfing at our track” meant the actual sport and not the hipster-imagined game, I’m sorry. Not really, though. Fuck frisbee golf..
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