We have an uneasy peace at my workplace, with “Hatfield’s” the golfing contingent, the “McCoy’s” the fishing crowd. It’s a separate yet equal environment with no “Tweeners” – guys that like both.
I expected the golfing crowd to be sympathetic, as their sport involves running around the out-of-doors flailing ineffectually at a dimpled white ball, whose flight is as perverse and uncontrollable as a trout’s idea of tasty.
Negative. You are either a Sith Lord or a Jedi Knight, never the twain shall meet.
I figured to beard the prophet, adding to the lunchroom fodder with some angling magazines thrown onto the rack at random. I had to do something as the Postman was starting to wink suggestively when he delivered them. (The phallic thing, see below.)
Now I Done it. The cry of protest was long and deafening, scorn followed in short order.
“So lemme get this straight, you drive for hours, get in the water, throw fake insects at fish with your pole, and if you’re lucky, you let them go when you’re done?”
Ayup.
“You spend thousands of dollars on gear, piss off your wife, abandon her for weekends at a time, then make excuses why you didn’t catch anything?”
Affirmative.
In rebuttal, “…but you guys do the same thing, drive for hours, spend the entire day cursing, spend thousands of dollars on gear and green fees, piss off the wife and make excuses why that updraft caught that slice and how that broken window ain’t your fault, No?”
They looked at each other and agreed. “But we got Beer Girls.”
Seeing my look of confusion, “Yea, they drive around the course in a cart full of beer and stop at each group to see if they need fresh ones.”
Dejected and defeated, I left in haste. Golfers get cold beer delivered, fly fishermen get an overflowing Port-A-Potty, no toilet paper, with a door that was used to sight in a deer rifle…
They win.
Damn.
Strange. You’d think these Beer Girls would naturally migrate toward a group of men with “large trout emanating from [their] crotch[es].” Ah well, perhaps such a sight is too frightening for the poor girls. I, for one, refuse to emasculate myself in the pursuit of Beer Girls.
hawgdaddy
I’m with HawgDaddy, only because them gals have had an easy life of manicured lawns, respectable gentlemen, and cold beer swizzled with extended-pinky.
My guess is we would be considered backwoods riffraff, as we lack electric carts and the grass is never mown shorter than the transaxle of a 4X4.
While there may be no “Tweeners” in the immediate vicinity (although I do know a couple of them elsewhere), there have been accounts of the golfer side participating in the throwing of a line. I myself caught a whopping 6-incher on one trip, thus avoiding the label “skunked”. It remains to be seen whether the author can be cajoled into a real round of golf, or whether his links skills will be limited to the driving range or converted backyard.
P.S. the more common term is “Beer Cart Girl”, as Google will attest.
Oh Christ, they found me.