Denver, As Told Through Google Images Part II
Remember how I went to Denver last week? Sure you do. Well I only told you half the story! You can catch up on it here.
When we left the Denver story, it was Friday night and I had just gone to a bunch of bars that looked like Ponderosa. I woke up the next day and my friends informed me that we were going to play disc golf. I had never played disc golf, nor had I ever had any desire to do so. As far as I’m concerned, disc golf is the same as hackey sack; an activity to be enjoyed by filthy hippies to fill the time between Widespread Panic concerts.
But, since I would be playing with my friends and we would be drinking all day, I decided to give disc golf a shot. I also kept referring to it as “frolf,” which is a mash-up of the words frisbee and golf. I think that’s what George called it on the “Summer of George” episode of Seinfeld. At any rate, I thought it was hilarious that I kept calling it “frolf.” Nobody else seemed to agree.
If you’ve never played disc golf, the rules are pretty much the same as regular golf, but instead of trying to hit a little ball into a hole using a club, you’re trying to throw a frisbee into a bucket-like structure. Genius. We got to the disc golf “course,” which was a public park outfitted with 18 of these buckets, resembling a golf course. I thought it was a goddamn crime that they wasted an entire public park just so some dirty hippies could fling frisbees around, but what the hell do I know?
As soon as we got to the first “tee,” the hippies showed up. They’re like clockwork, those hippies. But this story isn’t about hippies. It’s about me. Everyone threw their disc and then it was my turn. Not to toot my own horn, but I have to say that I’m a pretty decent natural athlete. I can usually pick up new sports fairly quickly and I look better than average during pickup basketball games. I assumed my decent athleticism would translate to disc golf. I was wrong. My frisbee went about 10 yards, then turned over on its side, hit the ground, and rolled away.
“Oops,” I said, chuckling. “Looks like I should have stretched first. Ha ha.” I thought I would improve as the game went along, but I was wrong again. I was fucking terrible at disc golf. While everyone else was hurling their modified frisbees over 200 feet, I kept having to climb down a steep bank to fish my disc out of the filthy creek that snaked its way through the course. Adding insult, someone told me that when I threw the frisbee, I looked like Lamar from Revenge of the Nerds. I told that person to suck my ass.
Halfway through the game, someone asked me if I was going to use this story in my act. “Yes,” I said. “I will use this bit. It will be called ‘The worst Saturday of my life.’” The only fun part of the game came when I threw a stick into a filthy pond to make my friend’s dog chase after it. That dog got dirty. It was awesome. Petty revenge, thy name is Kukoda.
Later that night we went to some girl’s birthday party. Open bar! Woo hoo! I drank the hell out of that open bar. And even though I had never met the birthday girl, that didn’t stop me from telling her she was pretty and petting her face until one of my friends discreetly told me to stop. I also asked for a to-go box and loaded it up with food from the buffet right before we left. I’m a classy dude. You should invite me to your birthday party. I will class that shit up right away.
The next day we sat around the house watching sports. I enjoy watching sports. And that was Denver. I’d recommend going there. But don’t play disc golf. It is the worst sport ever invented.
Previously: Denver, As Told Through Google Images
Greetings From Denver!
