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Golf & Other Things to do in Hell
A stab at using my humor in a stand-up routine formula. I think it turned out great. It was a hit when I had time to run it through at work, and I got some good reception on deviantART, so I'm secure in crossposting it to here.
It is about golfing, which I did for the first time yesterday. You'll see the material here parallels other comedy routines at times, but I think my own original content more than outweighs the 'general jokes of golf'.
© myself, *Teryngale
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Went golfing with a couple of friends, Justin and Jacob the other day. I decided to go along so I could relax after a week straight of working from early morning to late night. Nothing like a relaxing round of golf to fucking piss you off. Shot a 136 on 9 holes with a par of 36. After 136 strokes, fuck calling them clubs anymore, they are sticks now. In fact, fuck the course, fuck the sport, and fuck the entire nation of Scotland!
Comedians should never fucking golf... There's no punchline here.
The course we were at was called 'Long Hills' but I think they are going to have to change the name to Land Fills after what I did to the front nine. On the bright side, I did take out most of the hills for the guys behind us. I'm sure they were grateful.
On the first hole, I took a whack at the ball and it flew straight into the rough; right into one hell of a thicket of trees. I didn't even see where the fucker landed. I asked Jacob if he saw where it fell. He replied, "Yeah. It's by that pine tree, over there." ... It's. Fucking. ARKANSAS!!! There are more trees here than children born out of incestual wedlock!
I turn to him and say "The fuck? Why not be more specific, such as: the tree with bark, or the tree sticking out of the fucking ground?"
On the second hole, this squirrel comes out of no where, just minding his own business. I charge out into the rough with stick raised for battle, screaming "SQUIRREL!!!" The damn thing shits itself and runs headlong into that pine tree, over there. And the assholes behind us just started to freak out like "Oh dear God! Is that boy epileptic?"
Those fuckers were fully pimped out with Oxford vests, long sleeved pinstripe shirts with matching hand painted ties, kahki pants the color of a desert shit, and those fucking plaid berets with bunny-tail tops.
Who fucking dresses like that anymore? Can people not golf without suiting up like a medieval pimp with matching luggage? Standing out there with their putters on the greeen, wearing their shiny new faux gold rolex's and white-inspection gloves as if they were posing for 'Golf Weekly' like there is a fucking catwalk on the back nine.
On the 8th hole, I took a liking to just picking up the ball and chucking it, taking three strokes per throw. Too bad it made for 32 strokes on a par three. Maybe I should call off that softball game next week while I'm at it.
Take 3, throw the ball. Take 3, throw the ball. Take 3, throw the fucking stick at those assholes laughing at me, by that pine tree, over there. That's how I got the 32, but it was worth the extra strokes. That fucker won't ever make fun of my golfing skill ever again, that is if he ever regains consciousness.
I gave up for the day after the 9th hole. I put the oversized hand-bag back up and got my pen and paper while watching the guys golf. I tried to be nice and help out by playing caddy boy for them. I shortly came to the revelation that manual labor for a writer is fucking painful; even for those watching me carry the shit. So I told them to fuck off and carry their own damn bags.
At the tenth hole, Justin started complaining that his feet hurt. Well yeah, after standing around, watching me swing a stick at a ball a hundred fucking times, one's feet do begin to hurt.
We started talking about the time Justin and another friend, Lenial golfed. Sadly he did better than me. But he has no personality at all, so atleast I did better by telling jokes the entire morning. Lenial is one of those wierd people that you hope you never meet in a dark alley in the middle of the night. And he has one hell of a unibrow. We started talking about good ways to get him to shave it off. I should take a pair of hedge clippers and start towards him, saying "Don't worry. I'm just taking off the unibrow. Now some little girl with Leukemia can have a pony tail again!"
Those of you laughing now have no soul. Congratulations.
On the 15th hold, Justin stopped by the lake and kissed this statue of a toroise... No real punchline there. I just thought it was fucking wierd. When I questioned him about it, he stared at me blankly and said "I've been waiting for that moment for a long time. It made me happy."
To which I replied, "Alright, whatever you like. It is Arkansas, afterall."
My hand fucking hurts still from golfing. It hurts worse than after that time I found that the HBO porn channels were free for a week. But outside of that, I'm calling it a good day. I shot a 36, mulligan'd a hundred. The other guys did pretty good too after factoring in their handicap, me.
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