Jesus cursed my putter for skipping church.

A coworker asked me what I did while in Phoenix. The answer was simple and yet, it rolled of the tongue as beautifully as any of Shakespeare’s soliloquies, “I drank… and I golfed.” I also flirted, stole, and gorged myself on anything fried but that information is only for a select group of individual. (yes, this means you.) And Blogger Pictures - still not working; those sons-a-bitches.

I was lucky enough to have a buffer seat on the flight out, which was good because we were grounded for some time by an approaching tornado… and also because I’m fat and need all the fat room I can get.

We hit up one of my favorite drinking holes and I mercilessly flirted with the bartender, a tall and scruffy gent by the name of Thomas, of whom I fantasized about later that night when I masturbated… and again the three times after that.

On Saturday, we golfed in Prescott, AZ. Why we would drive 100 miles to golf when there are literally hundreds within a 20-mile radius is beyond my realm of understanding, but I was a boarder and warranted no decision privileges.

The course was really quite good – challenging but not impossible… except for hole fucking 15. But maybe I was just unfocused and tired because at this point, I was physically pushing our partners’ cart up the hill with the aid of some bumper-to-bumper force from our cart, which was also slowly meeting its fate. Unfortunately, this was only the first of many unsuitable occurrences to follow. With the addition of an impending sunset, we decided to call it quits. After a solid hike, pushing both golf carts at one point, being led astray by course employees who offered no assistance, physically or intellectually, we found ourselves back at the clubhouse. Upon our arrival there, the “pro” bailed out and having no one present to attend to the needs (read: complaints) of the guest (read: me), I was forced to attend to my own needs (read: desires)… and after everything that had happened, the need was thirst and thirst means liquor. So, I went to the bar and made off with… correction, I ‘compensated’ myself with a bottle of Jack Daniels, another of Jim Beam, and a third of Seagram’s VO.

We were back in the valley (that's Phoenix talk) on Sunday and my golf game was really spot on. (“Spot on”?!? So I guess now I’m fucking sixty and British?!) I really did play a pretty smooth and consistent round of golf, aside from Jesus Christ himself cursing my putter. Unfortunately, my performance was not echoed by my friend, Rick.
- Number of clubs thrown: 3,
- Number of clubs thrown and not recovered: 1,
- Average number of hits off the tee (and at each shot from the fairway): 3,
- Number of balls lost, figuratively and literally: unknown.

The really unfortunate part of the round for me was not my putting... did I mention Jesus cursed my putter?, rather it was that alcohol can't be served until 10:00 (hole 12) on Sundays. A Nazi law if I ever heard one… correction: a Conservative Right law if I ever heard one (although, there's little difference between the two - kinda like the comparison of Wisconsin to Canada... Canada would definitely be the Nazis). We certainly made up for it, though – I was pretty wasted by the time the Bears scored the winning touchdown. Don't worry, I'm not going to go into that here - you've stuck this post out for so long already. More later.