Hogging

Ugh.

I haven't felt quite right since getting home from my drinking golfing weekend.

It could be due to the massive amounts of alcohol, burgers, and pizza I ingested. Or, possibly, it could be due to the fact I didn't drink any water from Thursday afternoon until Sunday afternoon.

On the way up we stopped at a place called Lumber Jack's. Next to the names of their dishes on the menu there would be a brief description. My two favorites were:

They're a real log pile! (Mozzarella sticks)

and

We call it the Skidder! (BLT)


We drove the 3 hours to our first course, a difficult layout with a shit-ton of bunkers and retarded greens. The greens weren't unplayable, but since there was no help from the course in the way of diagrams or booklets to help, you pretty much hit your approach shot and then found out afterwards how stupid it was to hit where you did.

I shot something like, 46-40. I missed two 3 foot birdie putts on the front. I drank a lot.

We hit up a local Red Roof Inn for the night, getting up to golf and check into a lodge for the remainder of our stay the next day. They had the room reserved for their shitty breakfast service set aside for us between 8pm and Midnight for cards. Just enough time for me to dominate at poker.

Nothing makes me happier than having people pissed at my "luck" when min-raising my big blind and allowing me to call and flop trips. Or two pair. Or a straight.

It happened a lot and I was pretending I was the luckiest guy on Earth all night.

I won.

We got up to play the next day. Two rounds, two days in a row. Beautiful courses. Beautiful weather.

I think I went something like, 82-92-85-Two Man Scramble (1 over?).

But the important part was the drinking and the smack talking. I won across the board on those.

We pretty much started drinking as soon as the beer cart girl showed up, which was usually about 10am on our first 18 of the day. She'd roll up and we'd all look at each other like, "Shall we do this, bitches?" and each of us would nod in agreement.

A six pack a cart with multiple rebuys.

We probably had, at bare minimum, no less than three six packs per cart on each 18. We'd stop in between rounds for a sandwich or burger, fill up on more beer, and hit the second 18. Then, we'd switch to a combo of beer and liquor for the next round, often resulting in behavior our moms would be disappointed in.

After the round we went back to the lodge and straight to the only place for food, a pub within walking distance. There we'd order multiple pitchers and shots would start flowing. We'd eat and then, while drinking, decide to move things to a bar. There the fat desperate chicks were in high supply.

This town was small. Not so small that they didn't have each of the 5 major fast food chains represented, but small enough that they were all clustered at the one exit for the p. There were two bars.

I only made it to one, but this place was epic. Fat chicks just walked up to you and told you they were going to fuck you. They'd drag you out on the dance floor and follow you around like you were some sort of horse they just claimed. I swear to god they were the most forward women I've met since hanging with drunk college girls.

Which was yesterday, but they were asking for it.

You couldn't create a better place with the budget of Waterworld.

Anyhow, at the end of the night everyone was going to this house party and even though I'd been drinking heavily, and at a frantic pace since 10am, I decided I'd go. It was just about 2am and a bunch of people filed out, spreading out into cars. I headed for the last car loading and it was full. I looked over at the remaining girls walking out of the bar and asked if they were going to the party. As it turned out, they were. So I asked the relatively cute chick I had stopped if they could give me a ride. She said yes.

As we walk to catch up with the other two girls, both chunky monkeys, the one turns around and says in a bitchy fucking voice, "Sorry, we don't have room."

So I immediately say fuck it and turn around to go back to the bar.

I ask the bartender if he can call me a cab and that's precisely when a tall decent looking chick sits down at the bar next to me.

"You need a ride home?"

Um, yeah. I was going to get a cab because my friends bolted.

"I can give you a ride home."

Just like that. This girl never said one word to me the entire night, though I saw her out dancing on the dance floor near me at times. Here I was, mere seconds after asking for some help and she was there willing to give it to me.

Why?

For boning, that's why.

Here's the funny part. Every chick we met at this bar knew every other chick. Every one of them had kids or a kid, no matter how young they looked. It was like we were celebrities, the new fresh meat in the bar. This chick was definitely bone hawking me.

She's driving me home and telling me how I probably wouldn't have gotten a cab because she was pretty sure they stopped before 2am. Then she was telling me about how her friends would be asking her about what she did with the guy she brought home from the bar, and that she wouldn't be doing anything because she was seeing a guy. (Yeah right)

I agree with her that it would be a bit weird, confessing that I also was seeing someone. About this time we pull up to the lodge and a typhoon of deja vu washes over me. Every ride home I've given a girl I liked, every awkward moment before you or her makes that first, and every time I've angle shot my way towards hooking up with a chick washed over me and completely freaked me out.

I jumped out of that car as it was probably still moving a few miles per hour. I said everything I needed to say from the safety of outside the car, leaning in on the angle between the open door and the hood. I was certain she'd have made that turn I've made so many times myself, that predatory angling in preparation of pouncing.

As it turned out, nobody banged any fat chicks. Despite their forward nature, most of the guys in my group were married or with someone, and the few that weren't just hadn't gotten plastered enough to go hogging.

Regards,

Roberto Braceleti