Mailbag: The Acid Tripping Try-Hard With A Bad Slice

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Nice Move

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My inbox has lately become a treasure chest of never-ending entertainment. I have to thank you all for this, even if the emails sometimes leave me worse for wear. This next one, for example, details an acid trip turned late night golf outing, leading to a life-changing epiphany tied into a golf shot I posted to the internet via Vine last Thursday. It’s a doozy. It came through Saturday, May 18, at 7:22pm CST.

Dear Uncle Rodge,

First thing I would like to say is this will be a weird email because it was a really weird night.

My fraternity brother and I were hanging out with some of my old friends and decided to drop acid as a way to celebrate the end of another semester…Shit got real weird as you can imagine. We watched Braveheart until we had to explore. We took out the back door onto the golf course with glowsticks in one hand and golf clubs in the other.

I could think of nothing better to do in the world than soak the golf ball in glowstick liquid and smash that ball into the stratosphere with my driver. I sliced. Bad. And in that moment I turned into you. I think what caused the transformation was one of your Vines that I had watched an hour before the trip.

Fuckin’ weird. Anyways, this change caused a self realization. And I need to thank you for this. It made me realize that I am guilty of being a try hard. I need to stop acting and looking fratty for the sake of being fratty. In fact, many brothers of my chapter are doing the same. We have lost sight of one of the main reasons of the fraternity. We have not been building ourselves to become better men, but instead have become focused on looking like Walt Disney hurled on us after eating pastel for a straight week.

In other words, things need to change for me, my chapter, and many fraternities across this great nation. Hopefully I can help my brothers realize the same thing. Thanks to you and acid, you have saved me from being a try hard and possibly my chapter, thought you should know.

P.S. this is what my brother was doing while I was having epiphanies.

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I’ll keep him anonymous so let’s just call him Acid Adam.

Damn. Where to begin? Did Acid Adam make it through the night okay?

Now, my golf game has given me sleepless nights on rare occasion, but it’s never led to any personal life-changing realizations or epiphanies, and never would I have guessed it could have such an effect on someone else’s life. I’m not even a very good golfer. Anyone using my game as a learning tool is playing against a loaded deck to begin with. Then again, I’ve never dropped acid, or even delved into any type of hallucinogen, so I can’t relate on any level to this borderline lunatic. I’m half honored, half confused, half shocked, and 100% terrified about all this.

The Vine post he’s referring to, I’m pretty sure, is this one, and it was honestly my worst overall shot of the day. Everything went wrong for me. I stayed open for an eternity, and look at this lean at my swing’s apex:

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I’m no swing coach, but that doesn’t look good to me. Who the hell do I think I am pulling it back that far? I don’t have the club head speed to pull a backswing like this off. Disaster from the jump. Brought the hips through so early, too. By the time I brought my hands around, it was way, way too late.

Look how far behind the club head is in relation to my shoulders:

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This swing isn’t supposed to help people. If anything, it should destroy lives.

Lastly, I swung like a bitch. Slice City. So bad. It was one of those you just forget about and don’t even try to find. You just leave it out there among the other tainted golf balls. I didn’t look for it for a couple reasons: 1) it would have been very difficult to find, and 2) it was at a crowded part of the golf course and I didn’t want to look like a jackass.

If I’m being totally honest, this one was also a slice, despite being a much prettier swing. Actually, I was pushing and slicing my drives all day. Probably cost me six or seven strokes when it was all said and done. It wasn’t pretty.

I sliced. Bad. And in that moment I turned into you.

As deeply as this cuts me, and it cuts deep, I understand and accept it. He implies that viewing my swing crept into his subconscious like an unstoppable rebel force and became a part of him when his mental clarity faded and his mind turned to mush. He sliced because I sliced. His slice would then lead to a realization that he’s a try-hard. I believe I understand how he makes that jump in logic, but considering his acid-influenced state, I could be off the mark. As I understand it, he was trying to emulate my swing, as any try-hard would try to emulate different aspects of someone’s life they deem sufficiently “fratty.” Ridiculous stuff, I know, made even more ridiculous by the necessity of his hallucinogenic state to come to the realization.

I really don’t know how to respond to this other than just saying that I’m glad I could help. I’m glad my 17th hole misfortune served some good, because it made me want to push Allen into the adjacent creek.

We have not been building ourselves to become better men, but instead have become focused on looking like Walt Disney hurled on us after eating pastel for a straight week.

Are you sure you weren’t still tripping when you typed this email up, bro?

Finally, I’m just sorry you didn’t get to see any of my putts. Witnessing the travesty that is my flatstick game may have put you in line for a Pulitzer.

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