I’m about to make Old Tom Morris roll in his grave by shining light on those who turn the game of kings into a debauchery-laden spectacle of countrywide municipal course terrorism. A sport where one does not simply play a round of golf so much as he survives eighteen holes comparable to Dante’s Inferno. Your manhood will continuously be tested throughout, and escaping unscathed is wishful thinking. I’m talking, of course, about the fraternity golf outing.
Running on four hours of sleep, with the taste of whiskey still fresh from the night before, everyone will stumble their way into the clubhouse to check in. Bold proclamations of breaking eighty will be made, the pro shop will be cleaned out of any and every Pro V1 in stock, and the clerk will foolishly hand over dozens of cart keys.
With twenty minutes to burn before the first tee time, every brother will hit the driving range with the exception of one jabroni who lone wolfs it over to the putting green. Soon after, irons are left in the bags and the range becomes one giant dick-measuring contest of who can outdrive whom.
Once the champion of cranking the big stick is established, everyone circles around with a beer in hand, and the ceremonial shotgun start appropriately gets things going.
Right off the bat, despite hitting seventy-five perfect drives warming up, some fucking slug will hit a worm-burner that doesn’t make it past the ladies’ tees. Universal custom will force his hand, and he’ll play the remainder of the hole with his pants around his ankles. This will be the prevailing theme for said brother throughout the day.
Early on, birdie putts will be wasted and the game resembles its typical, civil self. However, a ticking time bomb fueled by the beer-a-hole philosophy is just moments away from setting off pandaemonium.
By the fourth hole, cheeky shenanigans and gamesmanship will come in play. The flagstick will be placed in a bunker by the group ahead, backswing interruptions will be commonplace, and well-hit balls will be stolen, no questions asked.
At hole six, the barely legal cart girl who screams “I can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch” will come into the picture, and everyone will shamelessly spit game at her. Despite having coolers stocked to the brim with brews, more beers will be bought, some brother will “sweet talk” her into taking shots with the group, and the same cock-laying Casanova will make a declaration of pressure washing her pink fortress by the day’s end.
Mischievous antics progressively get more aggressive with each passing beer, and by the back nine, the golf course becomes a full blown war zone. Groups start hitting into one another on par threes, clubs are relentlessly commandeered from others’ bags, and fairways are littered with the collateral damage from full-speed, head-on cart collisions.
Eventually, someone takes it too far and drops a nuke with an absolute savage stunt. It’s all fun and games until some poor bastard reaches into the tin cup to retrieve his Titleist only to pull out a freshly polished turd along with it. All hell breaks loose, and from that point forward, keeping your head on a swivel is a must.
The rest of the round will be a blur, with brothers nearly being decapitated by scalding line drives, irons being snapped in half over the nearest tree, and explaining to the course ranger how three golf carts ended up in the lake.
Thankfully, everyone already paid in cash and the reservation was under an alias like Richard Blower. Savvy move all around. The fraternity golf outing will then conclude with everyone hightailing it out of the general vicinity before Johnny Law makes an appearance.
Celebratory beers will be shared back at the house, and plans to do it all over again at another course the following Saturday will be made..