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

Shit Happens

After spending the morning at a PGA golf tournament in Scottsdale, we got back to the car to find an unexpected visitor trapped inside . . . along with his loose bowels.

More Atrium Antics

This type of shit is always happening to us. Not complaining, just saying.

Toasty Bits

How do you warm up at a very cold Missouri wedding? Duh, like this.

Douche. It’s what’s for dessert.

This past weekend we were in St. Louis, Missouri, visiting our little sister Kelly and her husband Doug. Six months ago they had a baby boy, Parker, and we were eager to meet him.

We had the perfect day planned: take Parker to the zoo, take Parker to an Irish pub for lunch, take Parker home, put Parker in his Ohio State Buckeyes singlet, watch the Buckeyes game with Parker, put Parker in his Cardinals t-shirt, watch the Cardinals game with Parker, put Parker in his Blues jersey, watch Parker throw up on his Blues jersey, take Parker out of his Blues jersey and watch the Blues game with Parker.

Then to top it off, we’d take Parker to Ted Drewes, the legendary frozen custard stand on Route 66. What we didn’t plan on was what happened once we got there.

After pulling into a rather tight parking spot, we piled out of the car, already imagining the glorious diabetes-inducing concoctions awaiting us. But our euphoria was interrupted when we were approached by the driver of the car next to us.

“Did you not just feel your door slam into my car?” he barked. (Apparently he’d just downed a mouthful of asshole sundae.) Doug said that no, we didn’t feel our door hit his car because it hadn’t. “You gotta be kidding me,” the guy retorted, “You didn’t feel that? Our whole car shook!” (Guess he got nuts on that sundae.)

Now, under normal circumstances, a conversation beginning this way would be quite alarming. But Doug is a police officer for the City of St. Louis—he takes down pimps, drug dealers and murderers for a living, so we knew this Lexus-driving yuppie cracker was starting a fight he couldn’t finish.

While this was all going down, Kelly was busy putting Parker into his baby carrier. Once finished, she came around the back of the car to see what the commotion was about. And the bazookas came out firing.

“Where’s the damage?” she hissed. When the guy timidly responded that there wasn’t any, she followed up with, “That’s because we didn’t hit you!” She then turned on her heels, her infant son sleeping peacefully in the carrier dangling from the crook of her arm, and added the cherry on top: “FUCKING DOUCHEBAG!”

Every eye in the crowded parking lot was now on us, and while we felt twinges of discomfort, our sister strutted away, savoring the blood of a fresh kill.

Meanwhile, Doug remained calm. “I’m having Caramel Almond Banana. And that douchebag’s license plate number is NFP-272. I’m running it tomorrow.”

The Twins

Don't Feed the Fish

Here we are at the best bar on earth, The Swizzle Inn, in Phoenix, AZ. No, the Swizzle doesn’t have an outdoor patio. But it does have a super sweet atrium plopped down right in the middle of the place. The atrium is completely walled-in and appears to have been decorated by a blind surfer on acid. In other words, it’s awesome.

Technically, the atrium is just for looks. During the day, sunlight streams in from the open roof allowing patrons to gaze upon the tasteful décor: a beat up surfboard, sunburned plants and an old paddle that exclaims, “Please! Leave this at Shit Creek.” Naturally, from the moment we discovered the Swizzle Inn its atrium called to us like a siren song.

So last Sunday, fueled by liquid courage ($1.50 Bloody Mary’s) and some twisted bar logic (“If they didn’t want people to go in, why is there a sliding door?”) we casually sauntered into the atrium. And oh it was glorious! A psychedelic fishbowl full of magical things, a place where all your hopes and dreams could come true! We immediately pledged never to leave. Which turned out to be a good thing because someone had locked the door.

Jenny