I returned Sunday from Charleston, South Carolina. One of my best buddies is getting married in November, and we were there for his bachelor party, eleven of us in all. The groom-to-be is a giant man that has tree trunks for legs, a natural year-round sweater, a howitzer between his legs, and until he opens his mouth, is quite the imposing figure. But the man is a gentle giant. Every time trouble arises around our group of friends, like a barroom scuffle for example, his go-to move is to gather up members of the opposition, bear hug them with his huge bear-like arms, and carry them off site until cooler heads prevail. This has actually happened a couple times. He gets those big paws on you and it’s game over. He’s a sweet kid without a malicious bone in his 6’7” frame, but he’s still a big, hairy, American winning machine. He has a few nicknames, but I call him Toad. I love Toad.
I must digress, as the above doesn’t have much relevance to this trip, but you should know the man behind this east coast shit show.
The itinerary was stacked:
– two rounds of golf
– prepaid tab at Mad River bar for Texas-oSu
– dinner at Oak Steakhouse
– late night titter run to Thee Southern Belle
– bar stops in between each
Here are some key observations I made:
South Carolina girls are easy on the eyes, and they’re aggressive
The term “shooting fish in a barrel” comes to mind. After a first class scotch-and-steak dinner Friday night at Oak Steakhouse, we hit the Blind Tiger to get a feel for the local trim, just to step out ankle deep in the sea of east coast ass. We were not disappointed. The Tiger was swarming with early 20s tail from C of C and the local nursing school, Medical University of South Carolina, and they were attractive. Attractive and handsy, very handsy. There was one blondie, in particular, that we could have all passed around like a drum circle spliff at ‘69 Woodstock.
You must first understand we’re not exactly prime rib, just a bunch of average looking post-grad assholes dressed like we were closing out a tough day at the office with some laughs and some brown water at the nearby watering hole. There may have even been a receding hairline or two in the group. We might as well have been the New York Yankees that night though, in pinstripes and all. Fish in a barrel.
At this point, I have to assume residents of South Carolina are not drinkers
We jumped on two seemingly “too good to be true” all-you-can-drink offers that I really didn’t believe until a cold drink was in my hand and U.S. currency was exchanged. The first was a deal offered by The Links at Stono Ferry. They offered each of us all the waters, Gatorades, and beers we could drink for the entire round for only $12.50 each. The cart girl kept ‘em coming, too.
The second deal was later that night at Mad River bar downtown. $35 for all the drinks we could handle, top shelf included, for the entirety of the Texas-oSu football game. Saturday was a shit show.
Do you guys not drink out there or what?
The Kappa Deltas at the University of South Carolina may or may not be very bright
Before I get into these broads, let me first say that Stono Ferry is a beautiful golf course. Numbers 12, 13, and 14 sit along the Stono River, and it’s just an awesome scene. A nice, cool breeze comes off the river along these holes, and they reside on a Revolutionary War battle ground. Great, great course with awesome homes, moss-covered trees and scenic countryside. And very fitting, a wakeboarding boat cruised by on the river that was pulling a wake surfer and blaring Wagon Wheel like it was the last song they’d ever get to listen to. Even the wake surfers in SC jam that song.
As my group stepped up to the #12 tee box, we spotted three pastel-colored figures creeping toward us in the distance, right in the middle of our fairway. I imagine they were about 250 yards out. We’re trying to keep our winning momentum rolling, so we attempted to get them the hell out of harm’s way so we could tee off. Waving our arms at them didn’t work. Yelling to them didn’t work. My buddy decided to buzz their tower a bit, so he sent a Titleist screaming right by their heads. They were about 215 yards away at this point, but still in the middle of the fairway. They stopped like deer in headlights, turned and looked at each other, turned around, then slowly started walking away (toward the green), but STILL in the fairway. After gripping and ripping our final three tee shots at them, we pulled up in our carts to chat them up and see if we could help find their Special Education teacher/handler, who surely couldn’t be too far away. These girls were all wearing Kappa Delta – South Carolina tanks, and they were oblivious to their near death experience. It may have been due to the fact that they were drinking, or maybe they were just completely unfamiliar with the game of golf and thought they were strolling through a park, but explaining it to them fell on deaf ears.
They were decent enough looking, so we start the shit-shooting a bit, snap a few photos with them, send out some flirtation vibes to see if they’d send them right back. A few minutes and one dead-end conversation go by and it’s time to move on. We had a golf scramble to win. We say our goodbyes and get in the carts. They responded with, “Wait, where are y’all goin’?” We’re all fighter pilots, sweetheart. We have to report to base.
I hope they made it back safely to wherever they came from.
Every group has that one guy
Maybe he can’t handle his liquor. Maybe he does everything to excess. Maybe he just gets off on being an asshole. For whatever the reason, all stories from trips like this just seem to gravitate toward this guy. This guy in our group accomplished the following:
Night 1: He got too drunk at a bar on King Street and had to vomit. He fought it, but we all know that’s a losing battle. His cheeks fully expanded with his vom like a sax player hitting a high note in a solo. Tried to swallow it, but he eventually gave in and filled his glass up to the brim. Later the next day we discovered that he drunkenly sent full-body nudes (but covering his meat) to his girlfriend back home this night. He didn’t know it until he went through his texts on the way to golf morning of Day 2.
Day 2: He took a corner in his golf cart too quickly, fell out of it and successfully pulled off the ole tuck-and-roll maneuver, but the cart kept on cruising and ran him over right across both legs. He was literally run over by his own golf cart. I guess he jerked the wheel as he rolled out causing it to veer off course and toward him. The physics of it still bother me, but we have multiple first-hand eye witnesses. I don’t think there is a way to look it up, but this may be the only time in history this has ever happened.
Night 2: At Mad River, he got up on a table and fell off while trying to impress some strange. It wasn’t just any fall, though. He flew back cartoon style like he slipped on a banana. He came down hard on his knee, ripped a large hole in his jeans, and bled a puddle on the barroom floor. He left those jeans in his hotel room. He also got kicked out of the titter 15 minutes after we walked in and paid our $20 cover.
All in all, it was a fantastic trip to an incredible city with some great friends. And you know Team Dorn picked up the win in the golf scramble.