Monday, April 02, 2012
There's this little thing called The Masters that occurs down here annually and there were a couple of funnies that I read this week that I thought worth sharing.
As to the sacred and hollowed ground of the Augusta National:
The stories of the debauchery that goes hand in hand with the event - the van loads of "hostesses" whisked directly onto the grounds of the National, the special hospitality ordered up for the hospitality houses and the wandering streetwalkers unlucky enough to be on the "restaurant" circuit - you start to understand why the Masters has earned its place as the greatest sporting event to experience live.
Fashion advice to the more conventional ladies visiting the Masters:
If it rains, you'll be glad you listened to me. I've had many friends who wanted to wear cute shoes to match their outfits. They were the first ones to slip and fall in the stinky mud out there. If that happens, I can promise that none of your friends will leave the tournament, so you'll be forced to walk around with what looks like a bad potty accident on the back of your precious sundress.
On tipping the bartender during Masters week:
Fortunately, there are two circumstances under which richies' wallets tend to yaw a bit wider. This is one of them.
It was mostly men at the catering house, and when that many affluent males congregate, they like to one-up each other in terms of their wealth. Eventually it turns into more of a dick-measuring contest than a boys' shower room after weight training class in high school, and only slightly more homoerotic.
You, the schmuck standing behind the roller-bar in a white shirt and black vest, are the beneficiary, as executives, CEOs and soybean barons increase their tips two, five, and tenfold, all the while smirking at each other with their eyes. It's like they are trying to buy you and it's awesome. I raked in about $1,000 that week, and all I had to do was stand around and watch a bunch of midlife crisis cases make gorilla noises.