Monday, May 2, 2011

I'm Pretty Sure This Is Scotland's Fault ... They Invented The Stupid Game, After All.

As I am currently just past the midpoint of my 9th decade on this earth, I am becoming ever more aware of my pathetic frailty. Where once I could battle the cobblestones of Paris-Roubaix on a brisk spring day and carouse with French lasses throughout the night, drinking absinthe from various body concavities, today I am near tears with every movement, thanks to the unnatural twisting and bodily distortions required by the game of golf.

I thought I had prepared properly – I stayed up well past midnight Saturday and long into the morning strategizing, using the time-tested method of trying to drink all of the beer that the Anheuser-Busch Brewing Company had produced and annoying strangers with senseless banter. Regrettably, while such activities can be advantageous for the younger crowd (and John Daly), a man of my advanced years does not fare so well.

But golf we did, a foursome quite comical, as well as odoriferous, I’m sure, as my fellow players also subscribe to these commonly accepted means of golf-eve preparation, as well as the traditional 10 am practice-green Bud Light Tall Boy. Between the ubiquitous four-putts and our tendency to use the fairways adjacent to the particular one we were actually playing, I’m sure it was quite a spectacle – quite a spectacle, indeed.

It probably didn’t help matters that later in the day, I helped move an armoire that weighed in excess of 3000 lbs (13,636 decagrams) and was the size of Rhode Island (but, you know, 3-dimensional). Luckily, the two girls that I was helping were quite a bit stronger than I am, so we were able to accomplish the maneuvers without serious damage.

To the armoire, at least.

And so I sit, whimpering at my desk, arms aching, searing pain shooting through my body with each keystroke, and I think back to last week, when an excursion to the bowling alley, requiring similarly bizarre gyrations for which the human body is not intended, produced a nearly identical result. It's almost as if I haven't the capacity for learning.

The cobblestones of Paris-Roubaix seem like heaven in comparison.

6 comments:

Sarah said...

Awwww. Thank you for subjecting your self to more torture. I'm a good supervisor, right?

Anonymous said...

I feel your pain, old man. You call the Silo Fairy, I'll get the Bacon Bunny. We'll get through this toghether.

stasia said...

Hmmmmm. I feel similar aches and pains after an afternoon in the "strike zone" with Stuart, which can also be described as "happy hour" with SwillyBuckles.

The Dead Acorn said...

Sarah, you know I'll do just about anything for a frosty cold beverage.

There are no problems that the Silo Fairy and the Bacon Bunny can't solve!

Stasia - have you got his party rescheduled yet? I need to see SwillyBuckles in all his swilling glory. I hope he doesn't teach Indy to like beer ... my guess is that she'd be a mean drunk.

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