Golf: It Takes A Lot Of . . . Clubs

By Wyatt Earp | June 9, 2009

Well, I’m back!

You didn’t even know I was gone, did you? Well, I spent Sunday and Monday at the Heritage Hills Golf Resort in fabulous sunny York, Pennsylvania – Home of the Most Pushable Amish in the State! Last year’s excursion was, um, interesting, as I remembered very little of it. (Lousy al-key-hol!) This year’s trip was much better, since my memory was not affected by whiskey shots or overturned golf carts. Here’s the skinny:

We arrived on Sunday morning, a few hours before our tee time. Naturally, we made a beeline to the hotel bar – which has Guinness on tap. Yummay! Vincent Antonelli and The Badger started with the shots almost immediately, and the whiskey began to pour. Still remembering – or being told about – my high-powered shot gulping last year, I steered clear of the hard stuff early on. Suffice to say, Vinnie and Badger were already feeling the buzz at the first tee.

It got worse after that.

In another one of our idiotic golf bets, we decided that if you made more than one putt on a hole, you had to do a shot. Well, we all stink, so the booze was flowing freely. The selection included Jameson whiskey, grape vodka, and Jagerbombs (Jagermeister and Red Bull).

The good news was that Vinnie got so hammered so quickly, that the rest of us forgot about that shot bet by the fifth or sixth hole. That’s when I took this photo of my good friend, “enjoying a little pass out nappy time.”

Yeah, Vinnie knows how to party. He slept through the next few holes, and we tried to ignore his babbling drunkenness as much as possible. Being a true friend, I sent this photo to Badger and Badger’s brother Sean – who in turn sent it to every golfer in the resort. It went viral, and by Monday afternoon, Vinnie was still replying, “Yes, that was me passed out in the golf cart.” Heh.

Once we stopped the shots, we started the shots. Golf shots. Of course, I am a terrific golfer who could go pro any time I desire, but since it would mean the death of the blog, I decided to work for pittance as a police detective. Take a look at my handiwork, on this evil, bastardized tree:

See that heart-shaped tan spot where the bark should be? Yeah, that was me. Take that, hippies! I was about five yards away from that tree during my second shot. It was not in my line of sight, so I figured there was no way I would hit the damned thing. I let a swing rip and BAM!, instant vandalism. The ball hit the tree, kicked out about 20 yards to the left, and mocked me from the rough. Looking to the skies, I said, “Good one, God,” and kept playing.

It went like that for most of the weekend, which became much more interesting on Sunday night. You see, Vinnie never learned his lesson, and when he awoke from his slumber, he made for the bar – with Badger and Fish in tow – for more shots. The three of them closed the bar, while I went to bed at 1am. Our Monday tee time was scheduled for 8am, and I am usually the guy who tries (in vain) to wake up the drunks.

I was sharing a room with Vinnie, and the only thing I remember was hearing him come into the room around 3-ish, go into the bathroom, vomit, come out to his bed, vomit some more, and then . . . vomit. I considered going over to see if he was still breathing, but hey, I had to get up early!

When I woke up on Monday morning, Vinnie was sleeping on top of the covers of his bed with a small trash can next to his face. The trash can was chock full o’ chunks, and during the night, it tipped onto its side, leaking the contents onto Vin’s shirt. Lovely. I did my best to wake the beast, but he was having none of it. Discouraged, I went to breakfast and tried to call Fish and Badger.

No answer.

“Well, either they’re drunk or dead,” I thought, so I resolved this conundrum in the only way I knew how: By eating lots and lots of bacon. Hell, I paid for the outing and the continental breakfast, and dead pals were not going to keep me from a delightful meal. I continued calling Vinnie, Fish, and Badger, and I continued getting no answer. When the tee time came around, I asked Badger’s brother what I should do.

He said, “Screw em, let’s play golf!”

And being a quality friend, I did just that. I started my “onesome” and called the guys after every shot in an attempt to get them out of bed. Badger showed up after the 4th hole. Vinnie showed up after the 14th hole, and Fish never showed up at all. Since he is my brother-in-law, I called the missus and asked her advice. Her first question was “Is he breathing?” – a question I couldn’t exactly answer. She promised to keep calling him and would let me know if she got in contact with her drunken older brother.

I mentioned earlier that I didn’t know what happened to the guys after I left the bar at 1am. Here is what we know for sure, after collecting data from many less-drunk sources:

Vinnie: When Vinnie gets really hammered, he “takes a walk.” There is never a set course or time limit, he just walks until the vomiting/intoxication goes away. On Sunday night, he walked the entire golf course . . . at 3am. After being found by Badger, he made his way back to the room, and spent the night worshiping the porcelain god. He came out after we already golfed 14 holes, and rode with us for two – before giving up and going back to the bar for some hot tea.

After hearing the story about the bedroom and the trash can, Badger gave Vinnie his new nickname: Sleepy McVomitpants.

Badger – Badger had a few shots and a lot of beer, but he was in pretty good shape overall. He took it upon himself to see that Vinnie returned from his walk by walking after him through the darkened course, dodging skunks and waterfowl along the way. He would have made the tee time, but he set his alarm for 7pm, instead of 7am. Other than that little mistake, he played rather well on Monday, and sunk a 30-foot chip from just off the green.

Fish – Fish apparently took his whiskey shots to heart – and head. He was obliterated at the bar, and still does not remember how he got up to his room. When he got inside, he collapsed on the bed and slept . . . until noon. When he realized he was four hours late for our tee time, he napped a little more, until he was thrown out of his room by “housekeeeeepiiiiing.” Fish missed the entire second day of golf, and only fell asleep once or twice when I drove him back to Philly.

Well, there you have it. Sorry for the novel here, but I wanted to get as much information in as possible. As you can see, a good time was had by all . . . and remembered by most.

Topics: Al-key-hol, Golf, My Idiot Friends | 12 Comments »