Oh there’s a Tiger gettin’ tail it’s plain to see!
It costs a lot when he’s playin’ through the green
Well he just can’t wait like a shopper at a sale
Looks like The Tiger is gettin’ lots of tail
Look. I’ll be honest with you. I know exactly how Lindsey Vonn feels. I’ve also been medevaced via a snowmobile off a snow-covered mountain after a heart wrenching ski crash. I’m assuming that’s what it feels like to know Tiger Woods.
Today we pay tribute to our long-time bloggy friend, the sport of golf, and, of course, the concept of winning.
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All your camp belong to us.
Everyone knows about campers, right? They are the lowest of the low. Lower than pig shit. And now, I is one.
A camper is, of course, someone who finds a safe spot to hide and gibs poor little innocent players who stray into his line of fire. (Eat my pineapple!) Back in the early days of Quake, campers were considered scurrilous maggoty scum. Unfortunately, camping was often the only way I could kill my old buddy Raiko, who had me seriously outclassed and …
I think I’m talking about the wrong kind of camping here. Please never mind all of the above.
Let’s Go Camping
Three out of the last four years my wife and I have gone camping. Yes, that camping. Out in the woods. No internet. No bed. No electricity. Sleeping on the ground. Mosquitoes up the ass. My wife thought camping would destroy me. I guess we were both surprised when I manned-up and turned into a completely different guy. I go all wild and shit. I collect and break wood. I start fires. Me Tarzan. I think it still shocks the shit out of her.
The plan was a three-day weekend. We both took Friday off. Thursday after work we jumped right in the car we’d already packed and headed out of town. We had to pick up firewood then go back to our house because I forgot my coat. I didn’t think I’d need the coat but the wife made me do it. So we finally got on our way about an hour late.
We were about five minutes from the house when our first disaster struck.
We were driving on a two-lane road and, just when a pickup truck passed us, something hit our car. Loud. Simultaneously we both shouted, “Motherfucker!” as I pulled the car to the side of the road. I jumped out and watched the truck driving away. He wasn’t stopping.
“That son of a bitch,” I hissed. “He either deliberately threw something at us or kicked something up onto our car.” My money was on the deliberate throwing.
Our adrenaline flowing, we inspected the car, expecting to find something like a smoldering crater of devastation.
“Ah, here we go,” I said. A lounge chair had been tied to the rack on top of the car. That lounge chair had a flap that blocked the sun. That flap had been blown up by the wind and smacked down on our own car.
Yeah, that’s the way we roll. That’s how we started our expedition to the woods. I took it as a good omen. “This portends well for us,” I said wisely.
Without further incident, we finally arrived at the campgrounds. The same one where we camped the last two times. The same spot was still open, too. “Let’s take that one again,” I said. Yeah, I’m not big on change.
My wife wanted to keep looking. There’s a spot she’s always wanted to try. It was taken. But she did find another spot that looked promising. “How about this one?” she asked.
“I’m down for whatever.” But inside, I was thinking, “Old spot, old spot, old spot.”
“OK, this one then.”
Thus began the unpacking of the car ritual. We had to get the tent set up and we were already an hour behind and it was getting quite dark. We made quick work of the task and soon I had a fire going. I plopped down in a Coleman chair. It was time to relax.
My wife grabbed a flashlight. “I can’t find the water. I’m going to go look.” And just like that, I was all alone, in the dark, surrounded by scary animals. And probably a grue.
She came back and shared the bad news. “We got no water here.”
Apparently the campgrounds were divided into two areas. The older original sites all had water. The new sites (like the one she had chosen) didn’t. No water. I quickly calculated the odds of surviving on nothing but Jack Daniels. I thought they were pretty food.
Thus began the weekend of me carrying shitloads of water to our camp.
To be concluded in a post entitled “The Fire Incident” coming soon…
If you noticed a distinct lack of chatter from me recently, pat yourself on the back. You’re observant! As witnessed by the photograph above, I left civilization on Thursday for points unknown and only returned today.
Mrs. Abyss and myself went camping and we decided to rough it. No phones, no internet, no showers and no bed! No water, either. I had to hike it all in. Yikes. Later stories will no doubt be told of this harrowing experience. For now I just wanted to say, “I’m back” and I apologize for not being around to read and comment on your blogs.
I’ll be spending the next week or so trying to play catch up.
And no, in spite of the following video, we didn’t go camping in Hawaii.
I ran wild through the woods. Heart pounding.
A blood curdling scream. I realize, I am the one screaming. I look down.
The dagger had plunged deep in my gut.
This is a guest post by Mrs. Abyss in the spirit of the BlogShorts challenge. June 2011 – 30 stories – 30 words – 30 days.
Before we begin, I have to ask: How do you think my headline writing skills are coming along? 🙂
I have no issues with golf, other than it’s boring and it’s a sport. (More on the latter coming soon.)
So today we have a news report regarding two douchebags (golfer Corey Pavin and reporter Jim Gray) arguing about a third douchebag (whoring phenom Tiger Woods). And, get this, their fight is about a fucking game. Not just any game but one where you hit a little ball with a stick and try to get that ball into a little hole.
Pay attention! We’re talking about important shit here, people!
Seriously I don’t know if any of them are douchebags. I don’t know these men personally. I’m taking a little artistic license here based solely on behavior. They all just might be wonderful human beings. (Somehow I doubt it.)
So which one is the liar? Without being there it’s hard to say. It’s one of those douche-said douche-said type of situations.
That’s pretty much all I have to say about this topic. Read the link to the story if you still crave additional details. As always I’m simply performing my function of providing a breath of fresh aire and giving important news items of the day much needed context.
It’s not exactly the $750 million that had been previously rumored, but what the hey. The equivelant of winning Survivor 100 times isn’t too shabby. Nordegren will also reportedly receive additional funds in child support.
I know being married to him had to be icky and all, but seriously. $100 million? That’s a lot of money. Hell, I’d let him have his way with me for less than half that.
So, who will be the next lucky woman to take a ride on the Woods gravy train? Time will tell.