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Big Fat Golf Uniform Wearing Moron
There is this this particular guy who practices at the same range I do. The parctice area is not in a nice neighborhood, and is just as casual as it can be. However this guy won't show up to work on what I will generously refer to as his 'game' until he gets his pants ironed, shirt pressed, shoes shined, and visor aligned to perfection.
The short game area at this range is really quite small and can only handle two or three people working at once on their greenside fundamentals. Even with just three people you have to be careful not to interfere with the others there. The big fat golf uniform wearing moron likes to go to the short game area with a duffel bag of balls and stand in the most inconvenient place and chip approximately 100 balls at a time. Then he slowly fetches all 100 of them, moves 3 feet, and starts chipping them again. he likes to pretend he is the only one working in the short game area. When I go there and work on my short game I take 4 balls and move around frequently from pin to pin and to different lies. It's really hard to work with him there simply because on the rare occassion he hits one close to the pin you have to sort through all 100 of his balls in order to find the 4 you are working with.
I have grown to really dislike this guy.
Just yesterday evening I went to hit balls in the early evening. There is a gigantic staff bag set up next to where I make my hitting station. This staff bag is full of a brand new set of Titleist Blades and Vokey Wedges. Good looking clubs. really.
So I hit 8 or 9 balls and warm up. The ground is saturated with water so you have to really keep still and work hard to get good contact and not get splashed. Then out strolls the staff bag owner with a gigantic bucket of balls.
It's the big fat golf uniform wearing moron. He has apparently bought another set of clubs (titleist blades) and has a deluxe new titleist visor as well.
So I am just hitting little shots at a flag about 130 yards away. I am tired and had a hard week and have not worked real hard on golf lately. I am just hitting little 3/4 shots and enjoying the feel. So my boy next to me reaches into his gigantic coffin bag and pulls out a shiny new Titleist blade and starts taking chunks out of the earth the size of a small dog and the ball is quite literally going every bit of 22 feet. Oddly even though the ball is going only 22 feet it is going right, left, topped, shank. My boy had no ball control even at 22 feet. I am kind of happy now watching the big goon struggle. I am about to ask "Hey, you and I ought to go tear up the short game area after you are done with your bucket". But I resist.
I keep switching targets and building a new alignment station and I am hitting lots of balls off of tees because the ground is so very wet. Next door the visor king keeps switching clubs and with each switch his ball striking gets poorer. His searing 22 foot 3 irons are replaced by soft floating 12 foot wedges. His clubs and outfit look so good though. All the "playas' at the range stop in to see him and drool over his new clubs. He gives them the spiel about how workable they are and how easily customized they are due to their soft forging. How the shafts took 3 extra weeks to get installed due to his specs. He refuses to hit any balls in front of his friends, always wandering off to get a water, or to chat with someone else. Then when they depart he comes back to his station and starts again with his wombat practice routine.
Eventually his frustration seems to get the best of him and he disappears into the pro- shop (I guess I can call it that) for a much needed rest. I have about a dozen balls left and have been really pleased with how well I was swinging. I am out of things to work on and I don't want to waste these last 12 balls.....
There is a floodlight on the right side of the range about 160 yards out and 40 feet up. I decide to just hit 6 irons and see if I can hit the aluminum frame of the lighting rig. Maybe hit the actual bulb.....
So I start aiming out to the right and it would be rude if I had a neighbor on the range, but he has gone inside to align his visor and talk swing weights with a homeless guy. So I just start firing right over the wombat's station. And being arrogant and unfriendly has caught up with me because the third ball I catch fat. Like fatter than the wombat has been hitting them. The real bad part is the immense spray of grass, mud, and sand was blocked by wombat's golf bag and Titleist beach towel. Like, brown projectile vomit all over his gear.
I quickly switched targets, finished up, and headed home. I passed wombat as I returned my basket and gave him a nod. I feel awful about it, but no way was I going to use my lucky golf towel to try to clean up his equipment.
Visor wearing prick deserved it anyway.
Next time I see him I am going to hand him some little packs of M&M's and remind him to say trick or treat if he is gonna wear a costume. That moron could not play his way out of a wet paper bag.
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