The Masters Disaster

Hello friends.

As some of you may or may not know, I'm not much of a fan of golf. As a kid raised on MTV and video games, the lack of constant action was something that always turned me off. Even now as an adult I have a hard time following it. Except for the Masters. As the saying goes, it is a tradition unlike any other. As the first event of golf's Grand Slam, it holds a certain allure that all other tournaments lack. Plus its announced by Jim Nantz, who is quite handsome.

In 2003 we had the pleasure of enjoying the Masters while paying a visit to the Mar State campus in the Philadelphia suburbs. Sadly the following year Masters weekend coincided with Easter weekend, and as a result Mar State was not an option. But that was not going to stop us from celebrating. We simply decided to move the celebration to a different location, the old standby of College Park, MD. Unfortunatley I had no idea what Easter weekend would mean for traffic on the drive down.

I left at my usual departure time of noon, expecting to get there around 4 and catch the beginning of the TV coverage. It wasn't long before that plan hit a snag in the form of the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Once I got within 5 miles traffic literally was at a complete standstill. Eventually, through conversing with some of the other drivers stuck in traffic, I found out that a truck had jacknifed, completely blocking all of I-95 southbound right before the bridge. How expected.

I called Dmo to inform him of my predicament and make sure there was plenty of alcohol on hand for my arrival. He in turn informed me that he and his roommates were sitting around drinking vodka and cranberry's in honor of the Masters. With traffic moving incrementally if at all, my only hope was that there would still be some left by the time I got there.

Two hours and about 2 miles down the road later, the road was finally cleared and I made it to the bridge. I don't think my speedometer dropped below 80 the rest of the trip.

When I got to College Park around 6pm, Poppers was already shitfaced, and Dmo was well on his way. Having had nothing to eat all day, it only took a couple of glasses before I was right there with them. I managed to catch a few minutes of golf, and eventually we had to send Jurgen out to get more vodka. It was going to be one of those nights.

As if to bring this point home, sometime after dark I got a call from Jim$, who was in the DC area for "business" and decided to stop by to hang out. I informed him that we would be heading to Officer Ying's, right off campus, and that he should meet us there. Once Jurgen returned with the booze, he immediately started partaking, so we had to get BP to drive us. You know its going to be an odd night when BP is the only sober one.

Jurgen was riding shotgun and decided it would be a good idea to start calling everyone in his cell phone on the ride to Officer Ying. Once he got to Chubbs, Dmo Poppers and I started chanting, "CHUBBS IS E-NOR-MOUS!!! (CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!)" from the backseat. So that should give you an idea of the state we were in once we got to Officer Ying's. Upon our arrival we were informed that all there was to drink was Milwaukee's Beast, which was not going to cut it. We had a collective case of vodka fever, and the only prescription was more vodka.

The beer pong table was set up, which only infuriated me further. I began screaming out loud that beer pong was for pussies, I only wanted to play vodka pong. Dmo was not quite as discriminating, as he and Officer Ying once again took up the mantle of Team Sandwich, a veritable beer pong juggernaut. Tonight was not their night though, as they proceeded to get their asses handed to them by whoever it was they played. I'm sure Dmo's vodka-addled state probably played a part in this.

Eventually one of Officer Ying's roommates grew tired of our incessant bitching and found us a bottle of vodka. Jurgen and I ran upstairs, and I took the opportunity to showcase my drink mixing skills, making us a round of screwdrivers. I also swiped an orange from their refrigerator and cut slices to dress the cups, somehow managing not to cut my fingers off in the process.

By the time we made it back down, Team Sandwich had been beaten soundly, and now that we had been provided with vodka, Jurgen and I were ready to step up to the table as "The Unholy Alliance" (Boston & New York). Of course, since Jurgen is from Boston, he failed to hold up his side of the bargain, and I had to completely carry the team. Jurgen was in such bad shape that at one point he knocked his screwdriver on the floor, shattering the glass into pieces. I reacted to this by tearing my shirt off, throwing it to the floor and declaring myself to be "The Bad Guy", complete with Razor Ramon hand gestures and fake Cuban accent.

It was around this time that Jim$ showed up. I'm not sure when exactly as my concept of time was completely fucked at this point, but it wasn't long after Jim$ got there that Jurgen decided we should all go to the bars, with Jim$ leading the way. And it wasn't long after we walked out the door that Jurgen completely disappeared from sight. Undaunted, we continued on to Bentley's, where Jim$ kept feeding Dmo and I shots like it was going out of style. Despite this, a few highlights stick out in my mind.

The first would be Jim$ and I grinding against some girl on the dancefloor who Imus would have described as a "nappy-headed ho". The second would be Dmo pointing out then University of Maryland basketball stars Travis Garrison and Jamar Smith, who I decided it would be a good idea to go up and talk to. Sadly I have no idea what the hell I said to either of them, but they and their posse all found it hilarious. Either that or the fact that I had my shirt on inside out as a result of my drunken attempt to put it back on during vodka pong. The final thing that stands out was some kid with a weird accent trying to recruit Dmo and I to the rugby team, at which poin I told him I always wanted to play rugby and gave him a fake number at which to give me a call.

After Bentley's we went to Cornerstone, which I don't remember at all, then finally Ratsie's to get something to eat. After Ratsie's we went to Ole Mel's dorm on campus to spend the night, since none of us were in any shape to drive back. The last thing I remember is passing out in her roommate Dontrelle Willis's bed. So it came as as quite a shock the next morning when I woke up somewhere completely unrecognizable.

My first thought was that I was in Ed O'Neill's basement, but seeing as there was light coming in through the window I knew that couldn't be the case. It wasn't long before I began to hear familiar voices and realized I was in the common room of Ole Mel's dorm. I followed the voices to Ole Mel's room to find Jim$ in Dontrelle's bed. When I asked what the hell happened, Ole Mel explained that I had gotten up around 5am and attempted to urinate in the closet, which caused her to start screaming at me that the bathroom was outside. I disappeared and never came back, and I have no idead if I ever made it to the bathroom. A half hour after my disappearance, Jim$ was rousted from his resting place in one of her suitemates' beds when the girl came home and, not knowing who the hell he was, started screaming at him to get the hell out. That was when Jim$ took my place in Dontrelle's bed. After Ole Mel relayed this story to all of us, I mentioned that I had a vague recollection of being yelled at at Ratsie's, which Jim$ confirmed as having taken place.

Apparently I became infuriated when Jim$, who ordered after me, got his food first, and as a result crumpled up my receipt and threw it on the ground in disgust. I then proceeded to go up to the counter every time a new order was up and attempt to claim it as my own, which caused the guy behind the counter to start screaming at me that I had to show him my receipt in order to get the food. According to Jim$, when I finally got my food, a Philly Cheesesteak, I stopped halfway through and exclaimed to no one in particular, "This doesn't taste like pizza." When Jim$, clearly perplexed, responded, "What?", I had no choice but to repeat mysef.

"This doesn't taste like pizza; this tastes like Philly Cheesesteak."

After a sobering breakfast at the Bagel Place, we returned to Seven Springs and got some much needed sleep in actual beds. When Jurgen finally returned late in the day, his face was covered in cuts and bruises. He had exited stage left when the rest of us headed to the bars and gone to his girlfriend's house, where he threw up numerous times. He had no recollection of this, he only knew this because when he woke up in the morning, his face was hanging off the bed in a garbage can.

The rest of the weekend remained uneventful, save for the tournament itself. Jurgen had planned on making a nice Easter dinner for everyone, but after Friday night's debacle he no longer had the inclination. Regardless I enjoyed my Easter dinner of hero sandwiches from 7/11. None of us boozed for the rest of the weekend, so we were all completely sober to witness the final round, in which Phil Mickelson won his first tournament. And though we were all still pretty beat up, it didn't stop us from leaping off the couch to celebrate. I don't think I'll ever forget the weekend Lefty donned the green jacket for the first time. At least, the parts of it I was sober for.