Was up at Boulder for the CU game as part of some alumni group thing that I signed the wife and I up for earlier this summer. Though I suspected it would be highly geriatric, I decided to give it a try anyway. Essentially, it was uber-geriatric—average age was probably 70 and largely Waco-centric which translates into some fairly uninteresting conversation opportunities and “a frail outlook on life” as Group Captain Mandrake would say. Most of the men were retired pasty faced banker types and the women were of the flighty, semi-Southern belle variety that only worry their pretty little heads with grandchildren stories and never went in for any backdoor action.
Played golf Friday on a glorious day at the Interlochen Golf Club in Broomfield which is about 8 miles from Boulder. My cart partner, “Earl” was 65 and had played golf most of his adult life. That said, Earl did not understand the concept of shutting the fvck up when someone else was hitting or not walking into their fvcking line when they’re about to hit fvcking ball. He also did not understand that it is not a good idea to stand too close to someone in the process of their taking a practice swing on the tee box. Early in the round, I would mindfully avoid swinging too close to him in recognition maybe of his age and trying to be polite and all but by about hole 8 or so, I was actively attempting to knock the sh1t out of him with each and every practice swing. Chatty about his role as a deacon at his Baptist church, singing in the church choir and grandchildren and other matters of which I did not give a flying fvck, I began the round by being a little deferential in this regard but soon quickly tired of Earl and his dumbsh1t ways and proceeded to smoke at least two cigs on every hole and made sure the beer cart girl stopped to see me in no more than fifteen minute intervals. Though I did not take the Lord Jesus’ name in vain during that span of five fvcking hours, I did work in most of the rest, including “c0cksucking motherfvcker” at least twice. Shot an 82. Still can’t putt for sh1t.
Friday night we attend a dinner arranged for the Baylor group at the hotel. We sit with three other couples who discuss grandchildren, medical procedures, and the “pretty leaves they have on the trees, here.” This is followed by our featured entertainer for the evening, direct from Las Vegas, the magnificent, “Dondino.” Assuming you’re not retarded or addled by syphilitic effects on the brain, you’ll know that Dondino is at best, a third tier Vegas lounge singer appealing to the blue hair set. Ever know that you’re staring straight at three hours of your life that will be stolen and ground into dust and then sh1t on by a scoured calf and deducted from all of the good things that have occurred in your fifty something year walk through the years then you’ll know that hell exists. Yes, I’ll never get it back and whenever images of death camps or Cloth World seep into my mind, I’ll think of this chamber of fvcking horrors. When it was over, I ran, RAN to the bar and screamed for anything, ANYTHING that was wet including black tar heroin if they had it and could mainline it into me NOW. I would even have accepted simply being hit repeatedly over the head with a pool cue. Yes, that bad.
Bus left the hotel for the game at 2pm on Saturday and I’m here to tell you that you haven’t seen slow old people board a bus until you see slow old Baylor people board a bus. I had pre-gamed a little in the hotel bar—but not enough, especially when you’re surrounded by Lottie Mae’s from Waco and MacGregor in their lime green polyester sweater vest things that they darned/stitched/sewed/what-the-fvck-ever’d themselves.
Buses offload at the “official” (means no beer or fun) Baylor tent where a buffet is waiting, along with Judge Starr and Coach Teaff and Ian and the Baylor cheerleaders visibly repelled by having to perform circus tricks in front of this hideous assemblage of old people. You can tell that they would just rather take up whoring or pipefitting or anything than looking out at Lottie Mae yelling into Merl’s ear where the bathroom is located. Starr speaks and we clap in joyous love for our new president who is conversant in New Testament scholarship and identification of body fluids.
Wife and I sneak the fvck out of the Baylor tent in hopes of finding beer. You won’t believe this but there isn’t a bar or equivalent George’s tent around the Folsom Field environs selling anything containing alcohol. I’m reduced to begging CU tailgating types with mixed results—they look at me with a mixture of contempt and pity but acquiesce less I begin singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” or holding up a “John 3:16” sign.
Ralphie, the CU mascot enters the field, tear-assing up and down the gridiron while five or six student wranglers hold on for dear life. Outstanding display, said to be the greatest in college football mascotetry. Certainly an improvement over the masked Red Raider mascot of T-Tech holding her pretend pistol salute in the sky. Would have only been better if Ralphie would have taken out several Baylor blue hairs while his wranglers tossed Fat Tire Brewery products to Section 102, aisle 39, seats 21 and 22.
Exciting game—you’ve read about it so I won’t bore you. Dumbass penalties on Baylor almost deep sixed what should have been more of a decisive outcome. I’m standing up most of the game, jumping around, screaming, cussing (a lot), and generally making up for all of the Lottie Mae’s and Vernon’s looking around with their mouths open. We win. Contrary to my expectations, I didn’t get hit by a AA battery once by the CU faithful.
Two buses are waiting; one going back to the hotel for those staying the night and the other going to the airport in Denver for a flight back. As would be expected, our bus going to the hotel leaves with a couple that should have been on the other bus. A thoroughly fvcked up, ignorant expedition through the back streets around Folsom ensues as large bus is attempting to find/catch up with the other large bus. Another precious hour of life is lost in this process while the effects of expanded prostate glands kick in. Not happy. I urinate in the hotel parking lot in protest.
Sic ‘em.
