Monday, April 13, 2009
This is a simple story, featuring a girl, quite a few PBRs, and a dream. I spend my midsummer nights at a lovely establishment called the Bushwick Country Club, located in Williamsburg at the corner of Grand Street and Eldorado. The highlights and amenities of the establishment include Big Buck Hunter, a photo booth and a six-hole miniature golf course in the backyard.
On this particular evening, my urge to play mini-golf was surpassed only by my burning desire to get shitcanned. Luckily I was able to turn to my faithful friend Pabst while my friends and I had to wait for the local Shakespeare troop to finish their company picnic. I noticed the creeping specter of intoxication as I was unable to keep my grip on the mini-golf clubs over which I was keeping careful watch.
The hipsters finally finished their sandwiches, so my friends and I teed up. Things began innocently enough. We played a few holes, and were even greeted by the very nice and much obliging owner of the bar who was acting for the moment as groundskeeper. We chatted, we smiled, we shared a moment. Or at least that's what my drunken ass thought. On the third hole, I declared my love for the owner, who I did not realize was still standing right there, as I tripped and fell into the Pabst Blue Ribbon windmill, the very centerpiece of that championship green. Gentleman that he was, he did not mention my verbal diarrhea as he expertly fixed the windmill, thus saving my good name and preserving the exquisiteness of the miniature golf course for generations of country club members to come. The irony was not lost on me and my friends, as we continued to embrace that double-edged sword known as Pabst Blue Ribbon.