Daddy Sucks at Sports, Plus the Infamous Golf Story
When it comes to sports, some parents like to live vicariously through their children. I have no hope of being able to do that. I suck at playing sports (as does Mrs. Drew), and am certain to pass on my suckiness to the Girl. Now, when it comes to watching sports, I am fucking money. I can watch sports from any position: prone, sitting, standing, supine. Watching sports is really where my talents lie.
It’s in the genetic makeup. To be a good athlete, you need muscles that twitch faster than Michael J. Fox. And that kind of thing is passed down from your folks. So thanks a lot, Mom and Dad. Your crummy genes put me on the bench. In my next life, I better be a black man. God owes me that much.
In fact, I may be the world’s least talented athlete. I played football for ten years in middle school, high school, and college. I started a grand total of three games. I should have been doing drugs that whole time. What a goddamn waste.
I tried other sports. In high school, I wrestled for a year. What a fucking horrible sport. Get twenty sexually confused young boys together, throw them in unitards that haven’t been washed since the previous season, and then have them grope each other on a disturbingly sticky floor mat for three awful minutes. They shouldn’t even call it Wrestling. They should just call it Discomfort. This is an afternoon prison activity, not a sport. I get diaper rash just thinking about it.
And then, there is golf. Mrs. Drew and I moved down to the DC area about two years ago at her merciless prodding. I had no friends in the area, but the husband of Mrs. Drew’s best friend was nice enough to invite me out for a round of golf with his buddies. So I go. And, shockingly enough, I played well. I even managed a par or two. Fucking great! Things were going well.
Cut to the 18th hole. I hit a long (for me) drive that goes into the bunker. Too bad, but whatever. I’m having a good round. I walk up to the bunker. I have a clear view to the green. I get ready to hit my shot, when suddenly I realize that I have to fart. So I back off the ball, look around to make sure no one is close by, and move to let one out.
And then, I shit my pants.
Not a lot. But really, is quantity all that important? Once you let the genie out of the bottle, you don’t care what size he is. In this case, it’s big enough to feel dribbling down the inside of my thigh. And, let me tell you, that is a sickening feeling. I slap my thighs together, hoping to stem the flow. Fun. Is it showing through my pants? I crane my neck to try and get a better look at my own ass. Impossible. The clubhouse is 200 yards away. I make a break for it, but I can’t run, because then the shit will just go flying down my leg. So I power walk, with a load in my pants, past the rest of the group. I look unusual.
“What’s up, Drew?
“Gotta shit.” (which sounds like “got a shit,” which is a more accurate assessment of my current situation)
I fly into the bathroom stall and take off my shorts. My boxers are lined with shit. I brace for the smell. It hits. I withstand it. I am a fucking man. A man who shits hits pants, but a man nonetheless. I toss the boxers out. I examine my shorts. There is, indeed, a stain in the back. Awesome. But, thank Christ, I am wearing a sweatshirt. I put my shorts back on and go commando, which is unpleasant to say the very least. I then quickly tie the sweatshirt around my waist to hide the proof of my own incontinence. I go and finish the hole. I get double bogey. Shit.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the golf course was 45 minutes outside of town. So I had to spend the whole ride back sitting in my own filth, wondering if everyone knew that I had just dropped anchor in my own shorts. I don’t think they knew. But I knew, which was really all that mattered.
Two months ago, back injuries forced my to stop playing golf and, in turn, shitting my pants on golf courses. A checkered history with the sporting life, indeed. Sorry, my dear daughter. If you get an athletic scholarship, it’s gonna be in chess.
It’s in the genetic makeup. To be a good athlete, you need muscles that twitch faster than Michael J. Fox. And that kind of thing is passed down from your folks. So thanks a lot, Mom and Dad. Your crummy genes put me on the bench. In my next life, I better be a black man. God owes me that much.
In fact, I may be the world’s least talented athlete. I played football for ten years in middle school, high school, and college. I started a grand total of three games. I should have been doing drugs that whole time. What a goddamn waste.
I tried other sports. In high school, I wrestled for a year. What a fucking horrible sport. Get twenty sexually confused young boys together, throw them in unitards that haven’t been washed since the previous season, and then have them grope each other on a disturbingly sticky floor mat for three awful minutes. They shouldn’t even call it Wrestling. They should just call it Discomfort. This is an afternoon prison activity, not a sport. I get diaper rash just thinking about it.
And then, there is golf. Mrs. Drew and I moved down to the DC area about two years ago at her merciless prodding. I had no friends in the area, but the husband of Mrs. Drew’s best friend was nice enough to invite me out for a round of golf with his buddies. So I go. And, shockingly enough, I played well. I even managed a par or two. Fucking great! Things were going well.
Cut to the 18th hole. I hit a long (for me) drive that goes into the bunker. Too bad, but whatever. I’m having a good round. I walk up to the bunker. I have a clear view to the green. I get ready to hit my shot, when suddenly I realize that I have to fart. So I back off the ball, look around to make sure no one is close by, and move to let one out.
And then, I shit my pants.
Not a lot. But really, is quantity all that important? Once you let the genie out of the bottle, you don’t care what size he is. In this case, it’s big enough to feel dribbling down the inside of my thigh. And, let me tell you, that is a sickening feeling. I slap my thighs together, hoping to stem the flow. Fun. Is it showing through my pants? I crane my neck to try and get a better look at my own ass. Impossible. The clubhouse is 200 yards away. I make a break for it, but I can’t run, because then the shit will just go flying down my leg. So I power walk, with a load in my pants, past the rest of the group. I look unusual.
“What’s up, Drew?
“Gotta shit.” (which sounds like “got a shit,” which is a more accurate assessment of my current situation)
I fly into the bathroom stall and take off my shorts. My boxers are lined with shit. I brace for the smell. It hits. I withstand it. I am a fucking man. A man who shits hits pants, but a man nonetheless. I toss the boxers out. I examine my shorts. There is, indeed, a stain in the back. Awesome. But, thank Christ, I am wearing a sweatshirt. I put my shorts back on and go commando, which is unpleasant to say the very least. I then quickly tie the sweatshirt around my waist to hide the proof of my own incontinence. I go and finish the hole. I get double bogey. Shit.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the golf course was 45 minutes outside of town. So I had to spend the whole ride back sitting in my own filth, wondering if everyone knew that I had just dropped anchor in my own shorts. I don’t think they knew. But I knew, which was really all that mattered.
Two months ago, back injuries forced my to stop playing golf and, in turn, shitting my pants on golf courses. A checkered history with the sporting life, indeed. Sorry, my dear daughter. If you get an athletic scholarship, it’s gonna be in chess.
posted by Big Daddy Drew at 11:12 AM
2 Comments:
Hi Drew,
I see that this blog is pretty much abandoned, which sucks, since it's the best I've read. I particularly enjoyed this shart-themed entry. I had a similar calamity befall me once while hiking with some new neighbors. Awkward to say the least. My undies probably still lurk in the bushes up there off the path on Old Rag mountain.
Still in the DC area? I'm in Clifton Va.
A pain I know all too well, the worst thing about the shart is the sheer shift in emotions. The public fart is always a treat, very rewarding. That moment, with smile on face and one leg still half-raised, when you realise that you have just defecated on yourself in an area that people will know about it, is truly horrific. Mine happened in Dublin City, just as I hot off a bus, which meant I was stranded. My options were three-fold. The first, I get back on the bus and sit at the back, praying nobody sits near me. Two, I get into a taxi and just casually remark after a few seconds that the taxi smells like shit. It is important to be very indignant about this, if I don't sell it then I may be asked to pay some sort of soiling fine. And the third, walk my smelly ass into a shop and buy some new pants. I'm a very cheap man so I got the bus, and people definately knew.
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