Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Why I Don't Like Mini-Putt

Anyone who has ever gone mini-putting with me knows I get a little…competitive…when I play. I also cheat. A lot. Although I don’t think getting re-do’s because I’m dainty counts as cheating, but take that up with FauxHawk. I also think there’s nothing wrong with telling the 9 year old I’m playing with that sucking ass won’t get her very far, but again, you should take that up with FauxHawk…and his niece.

I just like to win. It’s not my fault. It comes from years of intense competition with TigerCat throughout my childhood and most of my adolescence. Now I hate mini-putt, yet have an intense desire to play it anytime I feel the need to kick some ass. Let me explain…

Ever since I was 5 or so my Dad had custody of TigerCat and I every second weekend. During the winter, my sister and I would spend these days parked in front of the tv with buckets of lego at our feet while my dad slept in his room - probably dreaming of a better life. But during the spring/summer/fall, my dad could only think of one other activity with which to entertain us: Mini-putt. We probably visited every damn mini-putt course in the city. And every week it was the same thing: I was good, TigerCat sucked, I would cheat anyway because I’m a bitch, and TigerCat would throw some sort of massive tantrum that would either have hilarious results or get us kicked out. And my Dad would be in charge of stopping TigerCat from clubbing me in my obnoxious skull with her wee little putt-putt club.

Here are a few of the hilarious results that stick out in my mind:

I was probably 8, which would make TigerCat 5. I had just kicked her ass at the game, again, and she lost it. She started chasing me around the course at full 5-year-old speed, with her club raised over head, screaming at the top of her lungs: “YOU BITZ!!! YOU GOD-DAMN BITZ!!!” If you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s “bitch” with her child-lisp. Seriously, that child could swear like a sailor on leave. We probably circled the course 3 or 4 times before my dad managed to grab her, restrain her flailing arms, distract her with a blue slushie, and lock her in the car. The other families were still staring in shock as we drove away.

Fast-forward about 10 years, and we’re still, unbelievably, playing mini-putt on a Saturday with my father. I got my ball in the hole (haha, epiphany: maybe this is why I keep playing the game) in 2 shots. TigerCat, on her 4th shot, still couldn’t get her ball past the giant aluminum polar bear (this course had an animal theme). So she screams “FUCK!!!”, winds up, and hits the ball as hard as she can. In a scene of majestic beauty that only happens when everything in the universe is lined up perfectly, the ball rams the bear in the torso at full-speed, ricochets back, and clocks her on the side of the head. Oh my god, I pissed my pants laughing so hard. TigerCat cried, yet even through her tears and possible neurological damage she could see the hilarity of the situation and also practically pissed herself. This is why she is my soul-twin.

My dad passed her a blue slushie and shook his head – probably dreaming of a better life.

In conclusion, if you ever have the unfortunate chance to play mini-putt with me then be prepared to lose the game, your dignity, and your ability to love me.

The Peach

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