Teed Off

Today our girlfriends are playing in the 9th Annual Swizzle Inn Hussy Golf Tournament. The only requirements to play in this classy affair are fifty bucks, a decent set of clubs and a va-jay-jay. Despite having all of those things, we have chosen not to play for one all-important reason: Golf is fucking hard!

This concept was lost on our parents, which is why at age 14 we found ourselves signed up for lessons at the local public course. From day one, we could not understand why anyone would choose to spend an afternoon attempting to hit a tiny white ball into a hole the size of a can of tuna. At least if there was tuna fish in the hole, we wouldn't go hungry after walking 450 yards.

Countless dreadful Saturdays spent plucking balls from water hazards and backyard patios did nothing to improve our skills—or our attitudes.

It didn’t take long for us to discover that throwing a golf ball is a lot more accurate, and gratifying, than hitting it with a long metal stick (which incidentally makes a great projectile as well). Mind you, the round didn’t always start badly, but it inevitably ended the same way: with both of us bludgeoning the ground as if trying to win matching jumbo pandas in a game of Five Iron Whack-A-Mole. All while shrieking the “f” word—and we don’t mean, “fore.”

Have you ever witnessed golf cart road rage? If not, you haven’t played with us.

Fortunately we’ve grown wiser over the years. Which is why today we’re spending the afternoon writing a blog rather than completing a foursome with our hussy girlfriends. But we are cheering them on from afar. Go get ‘em girls. Bring home the trophy. Or at least some Chicken of the Sea.

Solicit this

(A.K.A. my Rant of the Week)

What’s with all the door-to-door soliciting lately? In the past two weeks, I’ve had the most motley string of vagrants ring my doorbell: a twiggy, middle-aged woman wanting to fix my windshield (which wasn’t broken), two pimply-faced high school girls offering to shampoo my carpets and furniture, and a scary old dude in a white cowboy hat urging me to buy magazines to help kids learn to make an honest living.

In my haste to get him off the porch, I refrained from asking two obvious yet critical questions:

1. Why aren’t the kids selling the magazines themselves?
2. The little shitheads aren’t stuffed in your trunk, are they?

Not long after that I was forced to close the blinds in my office lest I come face to face with what appeared to be a post-op lobotomy patient who was ringing my neighbor’s doorbell.

Is it just me? Or has door-to-door soliciting dramatically increased in the wake of the economic downturn? The “Do Not Call List” was great, but what I really need is a “Do Not Ring My Doorbell and Try to Sell Me Your Worthless Crap While Smelling Like a Butt Crack List.” If that’s ever invented, please call me. Or text me. Heck, you can even stop by and tell me in person—just don’t ring my doorbell.

Shelly