ok. i just reread that last post and i feel kind of shitty.
i feel shitty because it's poorly written, amateurishly wordy and nakedly trying to string you along/build my never-a-point-of-pride traffic back up. face it, the fucking thing is as breathless as louie anderson at a buffet in denver. that's what happens when you take too much time off, i guess.
anyhow, i still have to deliver the stories now - but i'm going to keep it simple.
first thing's first.
actually, second thing's first. i really did come very very very close to being killed - or at least christopher reeved - while playing golf in nuevo vallarta last week. and i swear, no matter how well or poorly i try to explain how close i was to eating it and how lucky i am to have finished my round of golf without even a minor headache, it's really not going to do it justice. i really do owe my life and physical well being to circumstances beyond my control, positively angelic timing, and the fact that my brother in law and i have a close enough relationship where we can act like annoying douchebags to each other.
here's what basically happened. i was blissfully riding shotgun in a cart, sipping contentedly from an icey bottle of mexico's wettest, looking forward to continuing what would end up as my finest round of golf ever. my wife's sister's husband, dr. bryan, was at the wheel. we were smiling the smiles of two men who would not have a single parental responsibility for a few hours. life was grand as we headed around the blind curve towards the fifth hole on the el tigre golf course.
it was there on that blind curve, just past the decorative trash cans, that dr. bryan decided to pull our cart toward the right, just slightly off the path, for the express purpose of playfully annoying me by driving my half of the cart through the low-hanging palm fronds that lined the dirt road.
and at the exact, to-the-nanosecond instant that rochester's finest dentist turned that hard plastic wheel to the right, on the road where our cart had been only half a heartbeat before, came a mini-cooper sized gardening truck, whizzing around the blind curve in our direction - buzzing our cart through the space we had occupied only a moment before, closely enough for me to see the sweat on the driver's luxurious and impressive moustache.
had bryan not impulsively turned that wheel in an undeniable effort to act (playfully) like a prick, the driver would have plowed directly into the front of our cart at reasonably high speed. i would have been instantly catapulted forward through the open front of the cart and flattened against the truck's hood like a cheap wicker chair in louie anderson's dressing room. it would have been all over. (lucky bryan would have merely broken all his ribs and sternum on the steering wheel.)
and just as quickly as we realized what was happening, it was over. in a flash. it was like, 'whoa! that guy almost killed us!' some laughter, a few nervous jokes and then it really was sort of history for the rest of the day. i even forgot to tell mrs b about it until a few hours after i got back. but then, as my vacation went on, i started to think about it and it really started to disturb me.
i truly and sincerely dodged a fucking bullet. this was as close as i had ever seriously come to getting put down for the count. i mean, i did have thyroid cancer back in the day, but i always knew the whole time that it was not serious, curable and just a bump in the road. it was never dangerous. this was fucking dangerous.
it didn't really dawn on me until i was lying in bed a few nights later trying to get to sleep, playing the whole thing back in my mind when i really absorbed it. i shouldn't be here. i am lucky to be alive. my children are lucky to have a father. my blood felt like freon for hours. it was a really sickening feeling.
the good news is i didn't die. i wasn't fucked up. i still have my male model good looks and supermodel sized tits. and like any good golf story, this tale probably sounds 10 times more impressive to the guy telling it than to the audience, but you should only know that i would never wish for you a call as close as the one i keep seeing when i tuck my kids into bed these days.
i feel shitty because it's poorly written, amateurishly wordy and nakedly trying to string you along/build my never-a-point-of-pride traffic back up. face it, the fucking thing is as breathless as louie anderson at a buffet in denver. that's what happens when you take too much time off, i guess.
anyhow, i still have to deliver the stories now - but i'm going to keep it simple.
first thing's first.
actually, second thing's first. i really did come very very very close to being killed - or at least christopher reeved - while playing golf in nuevo vallarta last week. and i swear, no matter how well or poorly i try to explain how close i was to eating it and how lucky i am to have finished my round of golf without even a minor headache, it's really not going to do it justice. i really do owe my life and physical well being to circumstances beyond my control, positively angelic timing, and the fact that my brother in law and i have a close enough relationship where we can act like annoying douchebags to each other.
here's what basically happened. i was blissfully riding shotgun in a cart, sipping contentedly from an icey bottle of mexico's wettest, looking forward to continuing what would end up as my finest round of golf ever. my wife's sister's husband, dr. bryan, was at the wheel. we were smiling the smiles of two men who would not have a single parental responsibility for a few hours. life was grand as we headed around the blind curve towards the fifth hole on the el tigre golf course.
it was there on that blind curve, just past the decorative trash cans, that dr. bryan decided to pull our cart toward the right, just slightly off the path, for the express purpose of playfully annoying me by driving my half of the cart through the low-hanging palm fronds that lined the dirt road.
and at the exact, to-the-nanosecond instant that rochester's finest dentist turned that hard plastic wheel to the right, on the road where our cart had been only half a heartbeat before, came a mini-cooper sized gardening truck, whizzing around the blind curve in our direction - buzzing our cart through the space we had occupied only a moment before, closely enough for me to see the sweat on the driver's luxurious and impressive moustache.
had bryan not impulsively turned that wheel in an undeniable effort to act (playfully) like a prick, the driver would have plowed directly into the front of our cart at reasonably high speed. i would have been instantly catapulted forward through the open front of the cart and flattened against the truck's hood like a cheap wicker chair in louie anderson's dressing room. it would have been all over. (lucky bryan would have merely broken all his ribs and sternum on the steering wheel.)
and just as quickly as we realized what was happening, it was over. in a flash. it was like, 'whoa! that guy almost killed us!' some laughter, a few nervous jokes and then it really was sort of history for the rest of the day. i even forgot to tell mrs b about it until a few hours after i got back. but then, as my vacation went on, i started to think about it and it really started to disturb me.
i truly and sincerely dodged a fucking bullet. this was as close as i had ever seriously come to getting put down for the count. i mean, i did have thyroid cancer back in the day, but i always knew the whole time that it was not serious, curable and just a bump in the road. it was never dangerous. this was fucking dangerous.
it didn't really dawn on me until i was lying in bed a few nights later trying to get to sleep, playing the whole thing back in my mind when i really absorbed it. i shouldn't be here. i am lucky to be alive. my children are lucky to have a father. my blood felt like freon for hours. it was a really sickening feeling.
the good news is i didn't die. i wasn't fucked up. i still have my male model good looks and supermodel sized tits. and like any good golf story, this tale probably sounds 10 times more impressive to the guy telling it than to the audience, but you should only know that i would never wish for you a call as close as the one i keep seeing when i tuck my kids into bed these days.
1 comment:
well put...i knew that messing with you would have its benefits. Who knew that being an "annoying douchebag", would put me in such good graces.
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