OFF-TOPIC: The Wacky Devil Music Edition

It is fairly obvious that most golfers will go to strange lengths improve their game and shave strokes off their handicap, and we here at Blacked Out Golfers are no different. One method that is generally overlooked but has been proven quite effective in many facets of life is, of course, Satan Worshiping. While it is commonly known that daily prayer to His Most UnHoliness is the first step to earning His evil favor, sometimes it takes just a little more effort on your part to receive His complete profane blessing. Then again, you could also just go see a ridiculously goofy metal concert.

Which is why the other night, I accepted the invitation to see the greatly heralded (by my friend), and cleverly named indie-metal band Goblin Cock at local venue DC9. Usually, this type of event would not get mentioned on this blog since it had nothing to do with golfing or blacking out (I drove that night, foolish mistake I know), but due to the absurd nature of the evening I thought it deserved at least an off-topic post.

We knew it was going to be an awesome show when we showed up to the bar and made our way to the back to figure out how to claim the tickets that were preordered online. DC9 is basically just a bar, so there is no clear will-call setup anywhere. No worries, however, as the black guy straight from the Tanqueray adverts was sitting at a table at the base of the stairs checking off names and collecting money. His job was fairly easy as there were only eight [Ed.Note: eight!!!] people on the presale list.

After a nervous chuckle, we moseyed our way upstairs to the stage area. I've heard the Liberation Dance Parties that they have here on Friday's nights are pretty money, but for a live music venue, it's a pretty cramped setup. Well, I guess it would be considered cramped if there weren't more than 15 people there for the opening act. I'm still not sure who they were, but it was three kids playing a pretty intense set. We quickly gravitated towards the back bar to grab a beer and scope out the surroundings. Not surprisingly, it was a lot of ugly, fat dudes with bad facial hair and the occasional tat. A quick scan of the place revealed one interesting patron, it was in fact, a lady, in fact, an older lady, a… mom? Oh yes, what a metal show, with a mom in attendance. I imagine a conversation with her would go like this…

Me: So, you like this type of music?

Mom: FUCK YOU! BOW DOWN BEFORE ME AS I DRINK THE BLOOD OF ABORTED FETUSES OF A THOUSAND TEENAGE SHATTERED DREAMS!

[blistering guitar riff]

Then as the group polished of the final song, the drummer/singer grunted out a THANK YOU MOM, thus confirming what we had expected, that we were actually at a junior high school Battle of the Bands contest. After the act, the place kind of cleared out as the roadies swapped out the equipment, and we patiently waited as they set up a bunch of strobe lights in a clear effort to annoy us. But it didn't take long for the place to fill up again, this time with about 25 people, when a parade of robe-wearing, devil-worshiping souls came marching out from what I assume was the bar's kitchen. YES, GOBLIN COCK was about to happen!

The guys were all wearing robes and had their faces covered, except for the lead singer/guitarist Lord Phallus, whose eyes were covered but had enough room in his hood to sing and sport a fantastic wizard beard. The rest of the band is equally hilariously named, with Bane Ass-Pounder on lead guitar, King Sith on Bass, Braindeath on drums, and Loki Sinjuggler on keyboards. They flashed devil horns with their hands, and raised duct-taped plastic skulls with glowing eyes into the air. Satan surely would have approved. The audience was loving it, especially one particular group of guys who clearly had gotten tanked before making it to the show.

Goblin Cock then proceeded to then rock our mortal cocks off, playing a unique brand of hard-nosed indie rock. They call themselves metal, but it was a little more mainstream than some of the crazier acts I've seen (don't ask). Their act was obviously enhanced by the ever-malfunctioning microphone stand, the liberal use of the fog machine, and the overzealous nature of one of their fans, who bought a six pack of beer and placed it on the stage at their feet while doing his greatest 'We're Not Worthy' Wayne and Garth impression. But ultimately, the highlight of the evening was when they spontaneously broke out into a cover of the Tears for Fears song Head Over Heels. Those of you unfamiliar with the song or myself, do not know that I used to torture friends and roommates alike by playing this song repeatedly before going out at night, all while singing along very enthusiastically to its incredibly annoying chorus. I realized at that point, that I had made a fantastic decision in coming to this show, and that I should probably pull up my pants and stop masturbating in the center of the room. Sometimes I get carried away, but it's always worth it.

They played a decent set, finishing up with only a slightly awkward encore, then we paid our tab and were on our way. No word yet if Satan is going to give me a little accuracy on my drives in return.

Top Golf, We Shalt Not Ignore Thee Any Longer!

It is fairly shocking that we here at Blacked Out Golfers have neglected to post an entry yet about one of our favorite golfing pastimes, the legendary Top Golf driving range. To the uninitiated, Top Golf is much more than just a driving range, IT'S A WAY OF LIFE. Well, actually, it is just a driving range, but it also happens to serve beer.

The thing that does differentiate Top Golf from other driving ranges (besides the beer), is that it has a dozen dartboard-like targets scattered across the range, that collect your shots (if you're good) and relay the data back to a computer monitor in your bay. Every ball you hit is encoded with your name, so when you chip away, it keeps a running tally of your score. The closer your ball lands to the pin at the center of a target, the more points you get, and points can be doubled with successively accurate shots. Each bay can keep track of the scores of up to five golfers, so it's a great way to work on you game with your friends, at least until everyone blacks out and vomits everywhere.

So, with the upcoming Blacked Out Golfers trip to Myrtle fast approaching, we have decided it's time to get in golfing and drinking shape by increasing the frequency of visits to beloved Top Golf this month. Of especial importance, is the preparation and training of our newest Blacked Out Golfer recruit, Hurst, who will be joining us in three weeks for his first foray into the world of drunken golfing. Fortunately, the fundamentals of his swing are generally good, although he does possess a brutal hesitation check-swing, that will certainly be ruthlessly mocked during the trip. But, that is WHAT PRACTICE IS FOR! And by that I mean the practice of mocking him.

Inspired by the beautiful weather, last Saturday a few of the Blacked Out Golfers made their way to Top Golf for an afternoon of boozing and practice swings. Big mistake, since apparently every other person in a 20 mile radius that owned golf clubs had the exact same brilliant idea. After a long wait at the front desk for a few members of the group to renew their cards, we faced the harsh reality that every bay in the damn place was occupied. At the time, I took this news rather well, due to the fact that I was hungry and wanted to eat a sandwich, and basketball games were on the TV at the bar. Not a problem while I wait for some group of idiots to clear out as I pound a few beers. But they didn't exactly clear out right away, and an hour of waiting gradually turned into two. We eventually weaseled our way into a bay and were able to play three rounds, so we were happy. However, as I type this, thinking back, I am pissed, enraged, furious, outraged. You want to know why, well HERE'S MY THING...

[deep breath]

Kids. What the fuck, really, you are going to bring your 8 year old to this place to watch him shank a 20 yard shot? I stood there on Saturday waiting for a bay to open and watched some kid hit 15 balls in a row without even putting any of them in the registration device, so the balls he hit weren't even going to show up on the screen. WHY IN THE HELL DID YOU COME HERE IF YOU AREN'T EVEN GOING TO PLAY THE DAMN GAMES! HEY MOM, DO YOU EVEN REALIZE HOW MUCH A ROUND OF BALLS HERE COST?! You can get twice the balls for half the cost at a normal driving range, plus you don't have to worry about the fancy newfangled computer screen that keeps track of your score WHICH IS THE SOLE REASON WHY THE PLACE IS FUN AND DAMN EXPENSIVE. Also, I don't want to have to worry about you complaining to me that your bratty children are picking up new and creative swear words from my friends as we curse you out for ruining my afternoon. Fuck you and your kid, taking up a valuable bay spot to do what you could be doing in your backyard for free. I propose the following rule, wherever beer is served, children are BANNED. DIE.

Solo Golfers. This isn't as big a pet peeve as the kids, but it is still fucking annoying. It's Saturday, what should I do? I know, get dozens of balls and occupy a bay by my pathetic lonesome self for four hours, so I can work on my game. You know what, FUCK YOU. I'm standing here with my three friends, and we want to use this damn place for what it's meant for, playing a competitive golf game while sharing notes on removing dead hooker stench from your mattress. You can't have fucking conversations that deep by yourself. If you want to perfect your swing, go to a fucking normal driving range and swing away, but please don't do that here. You're not even drinking beer, the waitresses aren't making any money off you and they fucking hate you too. You don't realize this, but you are less than one step away from being that creepy fat guy who goes bowling by himself on a Friday night and somehow ends up booking himself a lane next to the 13 year old girl's birthday party. YOU ARE A CHILD MOLESTER. ALSO, DIE.

Anyway, I basically hate these two groups of people at Top Golf more than any other. The place is more than a driving range, it's also a bar and an arcade. And if you are not taking advantage of all three with a group of friends, then you deserve to be bludgeoned to death by a bag of rotting dicks.

So now with the first sign of warm weather this past Saturday, I've realized that one should adhere to a few rules when headed to Top Golf on a weekend day.

1. If you don't show up before noon, don't bother coming until dusk. The place is a clusterfuck all afternoon and unless you don't mind standing around for an hour and a half, it's not worth it.

2. If you need to get another card, or put money on your card, be prepared to wait in line even more. It's obviously not worth driving out there just to put money on your card, but plan ahead if you know you are going to be around at off-peak times.

3. You can drink one beer... you can drink two beers.... You can also drink 4 buckets of beer, so goddammit, make it happen.

And most importantly of all,

4. Please, don't be afraid to swear at the children.

Rising from the Blacked Out Ashes, A Giant Drunken Flaming Bird Appears

Well, in case there were any doubts on the matter, laziness is not very conducive to maintaining a successful blog. In my hectic lifestyle of drinking beer and passing out in alleyways, I put aside the thing that mattered most to me, the blog I had posted to eight times. But no longer shall potential posts be locked away in the dark recesses of my mostly non-functioning brain, for Blacked Out Golfers will rise again from the ashes, so my incoherent ramblings can be posted online for a handful of my friends to perhaps read in their spare time.

This revival is mainly fueled by the fact that the Blacked Out Golfers are taking a special field trip in the beginning of March for three days of golfing in Myrtle Beach. Quite simply, this will be an amazing trip, as long as I am not tricked by any hookers into giving them my ATM card. This, of course, has never happened to me before.

So in partial preparation for our trip, I will begin updating the blog again with golf-related tidbits from the past months. Since I last posted, the Blacked Out Golfers have not played a round together, but individually we squeezed in a few rounds here and there, with unsurprisingly boring results. I myself have done quite a bit of shopping a few months ago, buying a new set of fitted irons, plus a new driver, fairway wood, and rescue club, so I am quite eager to finally get some use out of them. Also, finally, at the request of fellow Blacked Out Golfer, berg, I purchased a new cart bag to replace the bag I had been using which was infected with leprosy and spider eggs.

So in the weeks leading up to the epic Myrtle trip, I'll try and catch up with this blog by doing some reviews of the clubs I purchased and the stores that I visited. Before the end of the month, the group is planning on playing a warm-up round to get in golfing shape, so I'm sure a recap of that will make it's way to the site. I'm going to try and post some off-topic rants as well, since all blogs NEED MORE OPINIONS AND YELLING! Yup, big things are in store for YOU, the loyal reader, at least until I get bored with it in another three weeks.

Oh Crap, this Thing is Still Around?

[wakes up from being passed out for 5 and a half months]

[updates blog]

Charles Barkley is Turrible at Golf

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Another Reason to Never Pass out at Google's House

So this article and corresponding photo was emailed to us from a friend of the Blacked Out Golfers earlier this morning. Shockingly enough, people get drunk and pass out all over the world! This concept should somehow be incorporated into a ride at Disneyland.

"When this drunken Aussie was shaken awake by police he prayed none of the neighbors had seen him collapsed on the curb. Unfortunately millions could gaze at his slumped form. For at the moment he passed out, Google's Street View camera car was filming in that corner of Melbourne. And the man - identified only as Bill, 46, - is not happy. The fisherman who had been drowning his sorrows at a funeral, said: "I wasn't thinking there would be someone driving by with a camera."

Thankfully, Google is not in a rush to get dark alleys and parking garages mapped out at 3 in the morning so I think my worries shall remain focused on staying alert enough to avoid all the horny transsexuals. Hell, that Aussie should quit complaining, at least the police found him before the wombats did.

Course Review: Meadows Farms

A short disclaimer before I begin the review... This past weekend, I was invited to come play this course with our good friend Flanman and his Flan-father under one condition: don't make a drunken ass of yourself. You see, Flanman's old man is a minister, and not one of the cool ones that molests little boys. No, he's one of the good ones, so I was instructed to restrict the alcohol intake and go easy on the fucking swearing. A seemingly impossible request, but I promised I would do my best. Therefore, I am saddened to announce that the following recap is rated PG: Pretty Gay.


Course Review: Meadows Farms (We played the Island/Waterfall combo)

Course Rating/Slope: 65.8/113 (If you play the Longest Hole 9, the course is much harder)

Yes there is a green on top of the waterfall, and yes my camera is a pile of shit

Location: Locust Grove, VA. With a name like this, you would hope that there would be swarms of locusts destroying crops and engulfing old people, but we were all disappointed to find that the only plague ravishing this town was poverty. The town itself was about 15 miles west of Fredericksburg, and if you are headed there from DC on a Saturday morning, DO NOT take I-95. Unless you happen to drive a monster truck.

Price: $50/Saturday round

Course Layout: The course itself is pretty fucking cool and appears to be have been designed by someone who was obsessed with mini-golf as a child. The course boasts a handful of novelty holes, which are scattered evenly over the 27-hole course. The course features a couple of island greens (both water and sand), a green located on top of a waterfall, a green located in the outfield of a disfigured baseball field, and their pride and joy, the Guinness Book of World Record's longest hole, a monstrous 800-plus yard Par 6. Thank Christ I didn't have to play that one.

The course wasn't all novelty holes though and featured plenty of challenging par 4's and 5's. The layout of the course was pretty decent and holes weren't on top on each other so your group has plenty of breathing room. My only complaint with the course was that it was too hilly. There were numerous occasions where I would hit a good looking drive that would sail over the hill never to be found again. I probably lost 6-8 balls on halfway-decent shots that drifted out of my sight line. Not surprisingly, I think that's bullshit.

flanman is either fishing for a lost ball or a discarded hot dog

Course Appearance: The course itself was in pretty good shape, although it was a little wet. Fairways and especially greens were really fast, and of course I compensated by pretending I had no dick when hitting all my putts.

Cart Girls: I don't even know what to say about this. They had some delightful nubes working the clubhouse and running errands around the course, but the cart "girl" was a grizzled older lady with a fake tan and a faker rack. I couldn't even look her in the eye when I first bought beers, it was a feeling similar to when a homeless man comes up to your car offering to wash your windshield. I felt even worse because I did not have any taco bell sauce packets to tip her with.

Clubhouse Food: 2 out of 5 Hotdog Rating. Half Smokes were overcooked, but the food and beer were cheap.

Carts: Oh man, the only thing sadder than Judas' betrayal of Jesus was my golf cart. I don't think they all were this bad, but I had to keep my foot on the gas for a good 5 seconds before the weed-whacker engine would come to life and take off. It must have grown to trust me throughout the day though as it did eventually get better. The only upside was that the governor on the cart was set high or might have been completely off, so I was able to pick up some speed and subsequently terrify ol' ruffino on the downhill paths.

Errant Shot of the Day: Can't really remember a good one, but I will go with the final hole, a par 5 where I ended up losing 3 balls, the last one ending up somewhere in the parking lot. May I suggest Feathered-Touch? You have selected POWER DRIVE.

this hole made me nostalgic of the old days, when i also didn't give a shit about baseball

Awkward Moment of the Day: Sadly, we avoided a majority of the awkward moments that have plagued us in the past due to our penchant for binge-drinking. There was an amusing moment when I went to grab my camera and came back to the tee box to take a shot of the island green, not realizing that Papa Flan was taking a mully as I obliviously attempted to turn it on and check the settings. I was this close to paying for my sins by means of a vengeful 9-iron.

Beers Drank: 8. And that's among 3 people... piss-fucking-poor. Also, Flanman owes me a beer.

Final Thoughts: A fun course that I would definitely play again, but first I'd have to figure out a new way to get down there. Using I-95 as the route is more disastrous than my epic failure of a social life. Also, I would need to do a much better job of keeping track of my drives in this hilly course. I didn't quite expect to lose track of that many balls off half-decent shots. The uniqueness of the course though makes up for these faults and it proved to overall be a fun time. I would also like to note that there is a TV in the clubhouse dedicated to the 'Skins, and a second TV dedicated to whoever the Cowboys are losing too. Now that, is fucking badass.

Al Czervik would be proud

Received this email from one of our esteemed golfing partners yesterday (names poorly withheld to protect the innocent):

My friend Cooper runs a fantasy golf league that i'm in. He sends out weekly "good, bad, and ugly" emails where he ranks random things that occur during the week. Here is this week's "bad"

The BAD:
-What Stanley must have thought while playing golf in Fairfax on Saturday. He said that the group behind them kept making lots of noise and was generally acting rowdy. While his group was on the 8th tee, the aforementioned group sped around the corner and slammed on the breaks [sic] in the middle of a tee shot. Stanley then surprisingly heard someone utter the question, "Geoff Stanley?" Naturally, the person leading the rowdy group was Mr. Flanman ("Fancy Clap").

Honestly, i don't know what is more offensive, the fact that they think Flanman is the ringmaster of our rowdy group, or the fact they would have the nerve to tee off while I am attempting to perfect a 180 stop in a golf cart. That maneuver is fucking hard asshole.

Anyway, I'll at least give the poor chap some props over the use of the phrase "Fancy Clap". I believe Berg got a nasty case of that disposing some of the classier dead hookers from his father's trunk.

Missing: Credit Card, Phone, Dignity

True to our name, this is the third Saturday in a row that I’ve been a varying level of blackout after a round of golf. This doesn’t happen at the course, but rather later that night when my body decides to stop even attempting to keep up with all the shit I keep pouring into it. This all falls well into my plan of dying before I turn 38. My liver does not find that joke amusing.

Anyhow, after passing out in an alley for a good bit of time late Saturday night, I finally stumbled my way to a cab and headed home. It was only there that I discovered my wallets and pockets were a little lighter. How is it that I always lose phones and credit cards after nights like these, and never my anal virginity? Certainly one of life’s greatest mysteries. I figure at this point I should start asking the government for tax credits for my phone donations to the homeless.

Course Reviews: Fairfax National

Course: Fairfax National (We played the Wilderness/Bullrun combo)

Course Rating/Slope: 71.5/127

Location: allegedly Centreville, VA, which is complete bullshit. The exit we got off on 66 was in Centreville, the course itself might as well been in West Fucking Virginia for as long as we had to drive to get there.

Price: $35/Saturday round

Course Layout: For a course out in the middle of fucking nowhere, it sure wasn’t designed with lots of space in mind. It featured 27 holes that were all on top of each other, a superb clusterfuck of epic proportions. At certain points of the day you could stop and look around the course and see upwards of 10 other groups playing, which is far too much potential for social interaction for my tastes. Narrow fairways and the poor course layout led to no shortage of fore’s as balls were continuously sailing from one fairway into the next. Hopefully close family members will remember your stance during the Schiavo debacle in case you get clunked in the head during your round. The course also features a shitload of long par 4’s and 5’s, so pray to Jesus that your long game came to play.

Course Appearance: Fairways were decent but greens were really shitty. They were splotchy and balls were bouncing like a hooker’s tits during putts. Bunkers were also in crappy shape and the water hazards were disgusting and probably home to at least one Fro and/or swamp thing.

Cart Girls: The one area where this course truly stood out. They certainly know how to hire the noobs at this place. Courteous, polite, and smoking hot, they certainly inspired one to think up numerous euphemisms for eating out a girl’s asshole.

Clubhouse Food: 3 out of 5 Hotdog Rating (I don’t even know what this means)

Carts: Carts were actually pretty decent, they were gas-powered and pretty quick. They were also proven to be capable of doing 180’s although only in the hands of Berg. My difficulties in stunt driving a cart supposedly mirror my difficulties in pleasing a woman.

Errant Shot of the Day: I was going to go with one of Ruffino’s drives that sailed into a neighboring green, creating a humorous moment for us as we watched a fellow group cower in fear, but I am going with a homer pick. On one of the early holes in the back 9, we were faced with a quick dogleg left that began a hundred or so yards out. Not feeling confident with my irons, I decided to whip out my driver and cut it close to the wilderness to see if I could punch it through. My shot off the tee was straight and pretty, until it slammed directly into a large tree, bouncing directly back towards the tee box. It landed about 20 yards from where it started. Deciding then to use my back 9 mully, I teed again but shanked this one directly into the woods. All in all, a hilarious sequence.

Awkward Moment of the Day: Reminiscing on my how you doin’ line from the previous night, I remarked that perhaps tonight I should use it again, but to spice it up with a new accent. I decided an asian “hau you do-in” would be worth a shot, combined with a little bow. It was at this point we realized some Korean guy was right next door retrieving his errant shot. Oops. Me so solly.

Beers Drank: 44, I think, 24 of which were busch light, the epitome of high society.

Final Thoughts: It was a solid day, but that’s a course I’d only want to play maybe once or twice a year. Too crowded and poor quality overall, but I guess you are getting what you pay for, which is acceptable when you are a cheap bastard like myself.