I could very possibly be one of the worst golf players ever to hit the greens. So what better way to spend a weekend, but royally embarrassing myself on a golf course?

My brain: Sounds like a plan!
Minister responsible for better judgement: I'm sold! When do we go?

This weekend, my friend Danny, his girlfriend Clio, and her family have invited me to go up to Whistler with them. Apparently Clio's family are golf nutz, so I suspect they should have loads of fun playing in Whistler. (There are three golf courses in the Whistler Village area alone...all of them considered to be in the Top 100 golf courses of North America. Go figure.)

Now if I haven't made the point clear already, let me do so now. I really CAN'T play golf worth beans. And I'm not even talking about the magic kind of beans here either. I'm talking about those worthless dried lima beans you can buy in the bulk section at your local grocery.

Yeah those kind of beans.

You see...I have this rather vicious slice. A long time ago, I even got a pro golf instructor to help me work it out. But since I haven't played golf for such a long time, my slice has returned with a vengence. And it's brought along its cousins, Mr. Hook and Mr. Crap-Distance, as roommates.

*groan*

Suffice to say, considering the accuracy of my drives, I could probably get closer to the holes (with fewer strokes mind you) by simply putting from the tee. Yeah. Hmmm...maybe that's what I will do. Treat each hole as a huge mini-golf course. Heh.

Or I guess I could try to see how many other players I can hit with my infamous slice. I figure if I can hit a wife and husband with a single golf ball, that'll be worth extra bonus points. Redeemable for free drinks at the clubhouse, or something like that. (Deduct 10 points for slow moving seniors, and add 10 points for hitting spry youngsters).

And if all else fails, I can always hop up a golf cart and race it around the golf course in the World Rally Championship style. Lots of jumps, skids and slides. Perhaps even do some time trials against my bud, Dan.

I had something like this in mind. Except with the golf carts instead. Hehehe. *Evil grin* (Photos courtesy of Wrc-Online.net.) Hmm...so why do I get this strange feeling that I'm going to get a lifetime ban at all the golf courses in Whistler? Hehehe. But seriously. Will someone teach me how to golf properly? Please?

Bah.

Wish me luck with hitting the seniors.

The scene? A wooded trail near my house. The sun is yawning and getting ready to get back to sleep. The sky is awash in lovely deep purple and pink hues. Am I out taking photos? Nope. I'm nearing the end to my routine run. My lungs and legs are burning like a match.

Better make that a match doused in gasoline.

After intermittent winter training and the indoor doldrums on my treadmill, I've finally gotten to stretching my legs outside. Especially in the past few weeks with the sunny breaks we have gotten. It feels pretty great to be outside. The air is so crisp and fresh.

There's an outdoor park information board I use to lean on for balance while I'm stretching. It's near the end of the trail, just where I start to run out of steam.

This time I noticed there was a white paper stapled onto the board. I stood there stretching and wiping the sweat from my eyes. My eyes focused on the posting. I started to read out loud the big bold font:

"WARNING TO PARK USERS : COUGAR ATTACKS..."

I paused reading in mid sentence. I shruged. Well...at least it's more motivation for me to run faster. I looked around. The park trails were completely empty and it seemed like the entire park was silent.

Sure enough, I started running again. Who needs personal trainers for motivation?

Heh.

A small sampling of my late night conversations?

Me: Blah! I can't believe it! Care to shoot me in the head?
Him: It's best not to mull over such things. Only random killings.
Me: With our colour coded beating sticks?
Him: Ah yes. And our Prada handbags. With bricks.
Me: Yes. Because when wreaking havoc and causing pain, it's so important to do it in style.

Sigh.

And we wonder why we're both still single. Puh-leez.

For the past month or so, I've been taking care of someone's dwarf rabbit. The actual story behind how I got selected to take care of it is rather complicated (and not terribly important). Anyway, all I know is that the owner owes me big time, when she comes back from Hong Kong. (One of the things I bargained for, was at least one phone number of a hot/cute flight attendent from her flight. I'm hoping she flies back on either Cathay or JAL. Hehehe.)

Back to the rabbit. Well, as rabbits come, this one is pretty freaky looking. It's almost pure white with those nasty looking red eyes. Something about red eyes, doesn't matter how cute the animal is, it just looks too satanic for me.

Regardless, I've taken pretty good care of this rabbit. In fact, it seems like its appetite has grown substantially since I first took care of it. And it has definately put on some weight. Its cheeks are more puffy looking then before. In fact, the darn fatso broke down a piece of the door to its mini rabbit house (I'm assuming because he couldn't fit in otherwise). It's one chubby bunny (as Clara would say). Heh.

Well, I'm not talking obsese-must-go-to-Jenny-Craig fat, but it has certainly become festively plump. Evil thoughts of when my friend and I were joking around: Hmm...looks nice and plump. Hmmm...it seems ready for the rotisserie. May I recommend the red wine sauce to go with that? Hahaha. Yummy!

The rabbit has this disgusting and oddly cute habit of using its food bowl as a toilet. Swear to god! It sits on the bowl and does its business in grand pooh-bah style. So every morning, I have to empty out the rabbit dung pellets from the food bowl. I usually have to give it a good wash too, because it tends to leave some rabbit ass hairs around the rim of the bowl.

And if you think that's funny, get a load of this. The bugger has recently taken up the practice of using its water bowl as a bidet. Kid you not. Pretty soon it'll want full running water and another bowl for hot baths.

*shakes head*

Oh Dave...by the way, she's flying back on Air Canada. And last time there were only middle aged flight attendents. Do you still want that phone number?

*groan*

There's a dinner/cocktail/schmooze-fest thingy being held tonight for our city mayor. I've been told that even the provincial Deputy Premier is going to show up. (Apparently, my dad is on a first name basis with both politicians. Yeah. Don't ask how...it just boggles my mind to know my dad is more politically active than myself.)

Anyway, due to a death of a close family friend, my dad has unexpectedly had to leave for Toronto. So tonight, I'm supposed to go to this thingy (in lieu of him) so that I can introduce some people in my mom's church group to the mayor.

Oh dear.

I forsee a lot of unavoidable hand shaking tonight. My poor, poor hand.

So about a week ago, I crushed two of my fingers and banged my wrist. To make a long story short, it involved a heavy solid object in motion (a fridge), a solid wall and my puny right hand. The result? A nice crispy crunch. See equation 1.0 for the formula.

Equation 1.0:

I probably should have seen a doctor, especially after the swelling started. Instead, I took the typical guys approach--I decided to wait for a few days to see if it would heal on it's own. I just sniffed the wounds for gangrene and since my hand hadn't fallen off, I figured I was ok.

For the first few days after the mishap, I favoured my right hand like a spoiled brat. Gotta open the fridge door? Left hand's job. Gotta brush my teeth? Left hand's job. Gotta start the ignition? Left hand's job. You get the picture.

Anyway, I quickly learned to appreciate having two hands. Even the smallest two-handed or right-handed jobs were major obstacles. Heh. I had particular trouble opening jars until I found that I could open most jars by using my elbow to grip the jar, while using my good hand to twist the cap. Shaking people's hands became a gambler's game. Most people don't have a really strong grip, but once in awhile you meet that one person with THE Death Grip. Each time I shook someone's hand it was like playing Russian roulette--I was hoping that the person didn't have THE Grip.

As the days progressed, I reintroduced my right hand back into civilian life. A few days ago I even started typing with my right hand again. But, something felt wrong. My right hand felt really odd. In fact it kinda hurts to type this very entry up. Hmmm.

It wasn't until the swelling started to die down that I could start to see the shape and position of my knuckles. Well, if I look closely, the knuckle of my pinkie seems a bit 'off'.

The optimistic voice in my brain says: "Gee...I hope it isn't dislocated."

I think it might actually be dislocated. I guess I should probably go see my doctor so he can pop it back in. I thought about doing it myself, but I don't think I can be quick enough, which would only make things more painful. Sigh.

Now there's a doctor's appointment to look forward to.

Yummy.

So yesterday, I spent most of my day shopping for fridges. Somehow, it's been established by past precedent, that I'm responsible for the purchase of all major household items that run on or require AC or DC power. Last month I had to shop for a new vacuum cleaner (I finally decided on buying a Panasonic MC-V5227), and this month I have to shop for a new fridge. So...why me? Is it because I'm a shopper extraordinaire? Is it because I can fetch a bargain?

Nope.

It's because no one else in the household has the patience to listen to the rants of a salesperson. So out I go for another day of shopping.

Blah.

The unmistakable stench of vomit and beer filled the air. I glanced over and saw him sprawled on the park bench. He looked positively messed. The twelve beers hadn't treated him so well.

I shook my head and glanced at my watch. Time to go. I was chosen to drive him back home because I was the only person headed that way. As I picked up my keys and wallet, he started vomiting again. I looked skyward and sighed.

It was clear that he wasn't going to make the trip back home. Well, at least not without a few more power vomiting sessions. I debated whether I should wait another hour for his vomiting to subside or if we should just leave. I had awoken early in the morning so I could already feel that I was getting tired. I didn't think I could stay around for another hour and still make the drive back home. I decided to leave now. My brain made the appropriate preparations for the trip back home.

Airlines. Barf bags. Plastic bag. Carry the four. Barfing in plastic bag equals no vomit on floor of my car.

Hmm. That's good work brain. I glanced around for a spare plastic bag. I reached for a nearby crumpled Safeway grocery bag. As I picked it up, my brain flashed warnings.

Summer of 1994. Carrying groceries to car. Milk and eggs. Safeway bag. Cheap thin plastic. Heavy. Rip. Big mess. Vomit. Heavy. Rip. Big mess.

I looked around for a more sturdy bag. I grinned as I picked out the perfect bag for the job. It was a heavy duty plastic bag, like the ones they give out at the airline duty-free stores. This wasn't going to rip. Even better, if he passed out, I could use the sturdy handles as ear loops to hang the bag off his ears.

I took an extra bag, just in case.

I asked him if he was good to go. He nodded meekly. That was a good enough answer for me. I led him to my car and opened the passenger side door for him. He oozed into the seat. I handed him the bag and looked him the eye. "If you gotta go, go in the bag," I said. I decided to trust him that he wouldn't miss the bag.

He pulled the shoulder belt over, but was too drunk to clip it in. He kept hitting the seatbelt release button with the clip. Amused and yet frustrated by his antics, I just grabbed the clip from his hands and latched it in. I started the car and eased it forward. Right on cue, he started vomiting into the bag. Something told me this was going to be a long night.

I only had a rough idea where his house was. He had told me it was somewhere near the Edmond Street Skytrain Station. Since I don't ride the Skytrain, I wasn't sure where Edmond Street Station was. Once we got closer to his neighbourhood I just hoped he would recognize his street. The smell of beer vomit started to float towards my nostrils. I opened the windows and my nose hairs gladly sniffed the crisp and fresh outdoor air.

I noticed hard acceleration seemed to induce more vomiting so I tried to drive smoothly. My mind calculated a compromise between driving fast (and getting to his house faster so he could vomit there) and smooth driving (getting to his house slower albeit minimizing the vomiting in my car). I looked over. He was hunched over with his head between his knees. Then he started to sing a song. I couldn't make out the words. Suddenly, he started to dry heave. On the one hand, I took pity, but on the other hand, it was his own fault for drinking so much. Better in his throat than on the floor, I decided.

As we got closer to his neighbourhood, I asked him where I needed to go. He weakly looked up and told me to keep going. Edmond Street Station. Five minutes later, I passed a street sign. The first few letters were obscured by the stop light so I could only see ---MOND STREET. I asked him if that was Edmond Street. "Keep going," he croaked. My brain cranked away...

Mond Street. It's possible it's just Mond Street. How many other streets names could have the letters M-O-N-D in them? Hmm. Let's see. Addmond. Altamond. EDMOND. Redmond. Zedmond...

"Are you sure?" I asked. He nodded meekly. Against better judgement, I decided to folllow his directions and kept going. A few minutes later, the street eventually ended and I could only turn left or right. "Left or right?" I queried.

"Left."

I took that as a good sign. At least he hadn't told me to go straight. I turned. For a guy who had drunk twelve beers in a few short hours, he seemed in pretty good shape. He didn't seem to have missed the vomit bag as of yet. Perhaps he really did know where he was going after all. I was quite impressed. Maybe he wasn't as messed as I had thought he was.

Edmond Street Station. Keep going. He must know where we're going.

Then he pointed at a bridge onramp out the window and said, "Look! Niagara Falls!"

Ahhhh crap!

I let out a loud curse, slammed on the brakes and turned the car around.

No...despite the rumours, I didn't die in a horrible boating accident.

Yeah I'm still alive. Too bad, eh? The entire world and Internet community weeps with you.

Well, I'll update soon. Got a few stories to share.