Monday, July 20, 2009
This past weekend, I made the trek back to Naptown for two nights of debauchery. Friday night was all about Rally and Saturday, Berger got married. It was going to be a real test for my liver, colon, stomach, brain, etc. I'm starting to get older now so rebounds are tougher on me these days. But it was my goal to go strong alcoholically (I just made that up) this weekend. To show myself that I still have it in me. It was time to pound and keep pounding.
But it didn't work out that way. Friday was one of those nights that you think about when someone asks you about the time when you were the most drunk in your life. Because I would probably put it in my top 5. And I blame Mother Strut for that. That busty she-devil made Hurricanes that were no doubt the key to my late night stumbling and obscenely loud talking. It was glorious. I haven't stayed up drinking and dicking around with my boys until 4-5 AM since, well, my bachelor party. But nevertheless, it was a great night. Not something that usually happens in Nap.
Saturday was a different story however. I was awaken at noon by Naptown Wolverine farting in my face. That was only the beginning to how much this day sucked. I go home and immediately find the couch. About an hour later, the mouth sweats begin and I'm dead-sprinting to the bathroom to yak my guts out. My bitch sister is laughing maniacally outside the door. She then questions why a 28 year old is still throwing up in his parent's bathroom. And it is a fair question. I slept until 3 before needing to head to the wedding.
I tried. I really did. I drank everything that they had to offer. It just wasn't happening. My stomach was gurgling every time I took a drink. I was sweating out last night's whiskey like it was nobody's business. I didn't even want to talk to anyone. Basically, I fucking choked. The story was set for one final kickass weekend before I get married and I blew it. It would have been the final chapter of my life as a bachelor and I couldn't carry through. Just like Tom Watson (see what I did there?).
I was rooting for the old fuck. I actually fist-pumped when he birdied the 17th. He had it. I was already mentally preparing a post about how this was the biggest upset in the history of sports. But then on the 18th green, old man river 3 putts to give the title to that really tall guy that sort of looks like a penis who actually was gay enough to kiss his golf ball. Instead of taking the bull by the horns and locking up his 6th Claret Jug, he ended up puking out shredded chicken into his parent's toilet and not being able to turn it on in the playoff.
I'm really kind of struggling with how to classify this loss. I mean, Watson wasn't even expected to make the cut let alone be in the final group on Saturday and Sunday. The dude is 59 and playing against guys half his age with much more skill and power.
BUT, he had the tournament won. All he had to do was not three putt 18 and he wins a freaking ESPY (who wouldn't want one of those!!!). Instead, he blows it and is just like me...a loser who spends over two hours trying to find the Erin Andrews hotel peephole video on a Sunday night (still unsuccessful---UPDATE! Thanks to commenter Drew, I've seen the six seconds of creepy glory. I won't post the link due to not wanting to get sued, but she's a waxer!). So is it fair to say that a 59 year old Tom Watson choked? Unfortunately, I think you have to say that. It sucks but it is true. He let the pressure get to him. I'm sure that jessescott will fire back by saying that Tiger choked. Well, no, he didn't. He played like shit. There is a difference.
Now Tom and I have nothing to show for our weekends other than crippling depression, diarrhea, and still a slight taste of vomit in our mouths. That's the price you pay for pissing away what you wanted so much. Why, you're welcome, readers. That was a well-crafted analogy.