Once upon a time a bunch of golf friends went and played a game of golf together. Simple as it may seem – the moment or experience itself was life changing – not only for those men who endured the elements but the friends and families that surround them.
They were such lovely gentlemen – with backgrounds and upbringings all different from one other yet one thing, one moment – united them. A moment every January that took place in a quiet coastal town called Bandon. They came together as one – embraced their stupidity and lived… life. They lived for that one week every year. Where obesity & personal vices were welcomed as if moral responsibility or common decency didn’t exist.
They respected the game, they were good to their mothers. They had nice clothes on and they didn’t even swear very much. Bandon is a place that is revered – a home of golf and friendship. They were honored to play there. They were very fortunate and they FELT fortunate. They respected the course and each other and the time that they spent together. Basically the one word that you could use to represent these fellows was RESPECT. They were pillars of society and were model citizens, allegedly.
Females respected them, and they respected “females”. They didn’t speak ill of any imperfections of their bodies and they never thought about them disrespectfully, in any way!. They acknowledged that they themselves weren’t perfect, and so the female form, in any configuration, was beautiful. It didn’t even cross their minds that women could be ‘nasty’ or ‘dirty’ or even ‘helpful’. No matter how much their wives deprived them of their marital-vaginas©.
Then one day everything changed.
One the 7th tee at Bandon Dunes in the early 2000’s something happened, and it changed everything. The winds were mighty that day and the rains came as if to wash the earth of all its sins. Stepping up to his tee shot, one of the friends had the moment we all have had. That moment in every golfers round where it can all go wrong. Your mind wanders, youre unfocused, your drunk – the round that you knew – suddenly hangs by a thread. His caddie notices this tipping point and steps in. He pressed his oversized, wrinkled hand in the small of this golf friend’s back. The hand was heavy, you could feel the wrinkles from years of celebrating mediocre golfers success, but the contours were also somehow comforting, like they were a perfect match for the small of his back. Then he slowly leaned in to offer some advice. His warm breath was the next thing that was felt, Raison Bran, no sugar, goats milk, and dark roast coffee, super dark, it was obvious that he hadn’t bushed his teeth for a couple of days, but it was also somehow comforting, like the filthy, abusive, bad-dad that he never had. The breath was follow by voice…
“When in doubt, let me take care of son… I got you, i got you,i got you, i got you son, let me think of everything else, you just clear your mind, don’t let anything get in the way, nothing but… but… nothing but SOAPY TITTIES.”
That day, that golf friend swung true and strong.
And so it begins.
Every year since that day where a breakthrough in golf was birthed, a band of golf friends in early january in Oregon have braved the long drive, and the stifling cold and the typhoonal winds, and the cornocopia of moonshine, and the angry wives to put their minds at rest and think about soapy titties for the betterment of the game.