If you don’t like disc golf, don’t read this post. I’ll get back to writing topics eventually. Go drink a table, or write a poem on a sheet of water. Something.
I went to Boondocks Farm to pet the sweet corn and buy a llama. They had disc golf. They are run by Christians and will sell you anything. They had a huge wooden cross so I could think about the crucifixion while I played disc golf. They had signs with all types of slogans, like this:
I warmed up with some light calisthenics and fifteen minutes of kick boxing. I opened one of two Budweiser. It tasted good to me. The can sweated and I sweated and thought about beginning.
Hole 1 (244 feet) I threw the disc like a radio show. It almost went into the basket. I was now one under par. My ribs did a happy, sticky laugh. I felt like I owned something.
Entry shot into hole one. A great pin placement. My disc is right behind the basket in that clump of bread soup.
Hole 2 is 221 feet uphill. The photo I took was so fucking professional your retinas would explode into dust right now. So I won’t post it. I threw the disc way past the hole on my drive and had to settle for grainy porridge. A wasp stung me on the ass, left cheek.
I screamed out, “Holy Mr. Kenny Toes!” Then calmed down and thought about buying a salve.
Hole 3 is a 331 foot gnu. Nasty. There are pens behind it full of condemned animals with very small lives left on the planet Earth. All around the pens are these giant blue barrels that frighten me. Teethy woods on right. Out-of-bounds corn on the left, but who is going to throw it there?
Prepare to launch!
Crap. I bogey and am back to even, balanced, neck to neck parallel. I mean par. Now I feel purposeless, like a lost ant. I rip off an ear of corn and throw it into a low cloud. An incredibly red beetle bites my ankle.
Hole 4 352 feet.
Uncorked my new X Step here and BOMB one into a thorny ravine. My disc lands 25 feet from the basket and possibly the longest drive I have cater-cranked this year. I dig my disc out of the crunk and get three thorns in the fleshy part of my right hand. Blood. I miss the putt. I curse everyone I don’t know. Par.
Hole 5 I took a photo of the tee sign, as metaphorical possibility. See how it’s all peeling and flaked and kind of Sally? A lot of Boondocks is like that. I came out here one time and hole 14 had a giant cooler of rotting meat in the center of the fairway. Another time hole 15 held three caskets. I shit you not.
(Who is Jeff?)
I par the hole. It is a L to R tucked into people camping or something. I see a cat eating a blue jay. You can tell it’s a farm cat because I whistle and it takes off running. I stub my toe on a house of bees. There are a lot of bee houses but no bees inside. I have heard all the bees are dying in the U.S. This might be true.
Hole 6 is major Kelly Clarkson! Why? Because you can try to shoot the chute with a mid-range like Alice, or go big-ass Hyzer bomb bottled ice code-talking driver over the top. I go big code-talk, clip a limb, but land near the basket, in a kidney of darkness. I dig out my Wraith, miss the putt. Sigh. Still par.
(How cool is this hole? Can you see the routes?)
Hole 7 is a big ol’ 290 L to R with out of bounds like spots on sun. This is the last field hole before we ENTER THE FOREST!
I drive it here with a forehand, thank you very little.
I miss the putt. I thought I was supposed to be getting better at putting?
HEY EVERYONE HOLE EIGHT IS OVER HERE!! Can you see it? Oh look, the tee pad is about ten feet behind the helpful sign telling you where the tee pad is….Hey everyone we think you might be stupid or something! Whipeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Where is hole 8? Oh, there it is.
Forest, woods, gnurkly, tech, tech tech. I love tech! I park my drive by a deer stand.
Par this hole easily. Since we now enter my favorite part of the course, I do a little elven dance and drink my second Budweiser. I am now ready to humor like Kafka. My shins are bleeding.
Hole 9 is a 220 techy dream. If you don’t have a hammer shot, get one. This is the type of D golf I prefer.
Can you see the basket? I go all magic Sophie and hammer a birdie for back to one under. Word.
Hole 10 is a 200 foot L to R upshot. I throw into Cher’s bodysuit, but recover well and par.
Hole 11 some jack-ass put a fuse box in the fairway. There basically is no fairway. I was tempted to go to Walmart on that fuse box like Ander Monson did once in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. The hole drops away at the ending, into a deep cavern-like area. Could be cool as silverfish if a jack-ass had not, you know, you know, put a fuse box in the fairway.
Hole 12 (235 feet) is a nasty little shot down a steep and narrow cutaway. This be tech like community college, folks.
Wow. I throw a tad bit high, to my disappointment. Being able to release at a low and odd angle when at elevation is a tech skill, and I pride myself on tech skillzzage. Not this time. I can’t find my disc. I can’t find my blue baby-baby Beast! Argh..stumble, crumble, hot hot, thorns and stinging nettle, fucking ticks, argh, thorn, tumble into stump, stagger, swat, sweat, swat, sweat, argh…
Never mind. Found it. It is actually OK. Par.
Hole 13 is a crazy tech hole. I chunk my approach into the lettuce but then make this uphill putt for par. Whew. Still at 1- for the day.
(putter in basket, word)
Hole 14 is another 220 feet tech chute. I par.
Hole 15 is a glide of nachos! Love this hole. A blind tech shot over a massive ravine. The best thing to do is hammer like Rob and listen for chains!
I told you….Now I’m -2.
Hole 16 is disgusting. Long techy, and has a huge overgrown shrub right in front of the tee pad. I see another cat, with a lizard in its jaws. Cat gives me a look like maybe I’m the one destroying the delicate predator/prey symbiosis of the local ecology. Cats. What can you do? I par.
Hole 17 has a cabin and a wheelchair and a hot tub sitting on the fucking tee pad. Christian farmers are crazy.
I have an urge to sit in the wheelchair but I find it to be really bad karma to go around sitting in wheelchairs. I par.
Hole 18 is impossible. There is no fairway. I’m not even sure if this is tech. What is this?
I try a hammer. It bounces off the forehead of a tree, off a tractor tire, off a bridge with its back broken like a chicken bone, then lands here:
Hell actually is a bad place to visit. But I get out of here, and par. Two under for the day, people. I feel so good like woven eggs in a basket of remediation.
Boondocks, I love you. Your cross is a big cross, my friends, and I thank you muchly. I will now go apply various salves to my various wounds. I am holy.