|
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Celebrating 50 years of cat golfing
Hey, Let's pretend that my cousin Pat's birthday is in October, instead of September, and then this post will be very timely, okay?
So. We got an invitation to a surprise party for my cousin Pat's 50th birthday. It was a campout, which immediately precluded The First Baseman from attending, but I put it on my calendar right away. Wouldn't miss it! There was no RSVP number or return address, so I didn't know which of the 500 possibilities was hosting this party.
Then, about two weeks after I got the invitation, Pat called me one day to invite me to come down and celebrate his birthday. At a park. Where we'd be camping.
This has happened to you before, hasn't it? Where the victim of the surprise party says or does something to indicate that they know about the surprise, and the surprise is, therefore, NOT a surprise any longer? It poses a dilemma, because you don't know for certain that the surprise is off. It could be that the victim just happened to plan his own party, for the same time and date and place that the surprisers did, right?
Fortunately, I made an excuse to get off the phone fast, before I blew it, because that is indeed what happened: Pat planned a campout, and it was the same kind of event at the same place as the party that his family had planned!
Kelly had to work, and is not much for camping, anyway, so Rose and I set out for Perry one fine Saturday morning in September. We stopped at Cabela's to pick up a gift certificate for the birthday boy, and to buy a couple of sleeping bags, since we didn't actually own any to go with the clearance rack tent I purchased at Walmart in August. Sadly enough, I cannot afford the sleeping bags at Cabelas. Happily enough, there is a weird thing across the street from Cabela's every Saturday, and its name is People Bring Puppies to Sell and They Let You Hold Them. This event cost us a good hour on the road, plus we had to stop at Target for 13-dollar sleeping bags (pink camo, baby!).
We finally arrived at Sportsman's Park just as the sun was setting, and scrambled to set up the tent. Rose and I were pretty proud of ourselves, being all outdoorsy and shit. We blew up the air mattresses, rolled out the sleeping bags, and headed for the picnic area, where the aunts and uncles and cousins and friends were partying away, and by partying away, I mean there was food, the like of which you see only in Perry, Iowa. The main character was sliced, roasted pork that tasted like buttah, and it was accompanied by all manner of delicacies. We ate extremely well, chatted, and caught up with everybody.
After that, it was time for all the non-camping losers to hit the road, while the cool kids retired to the campfire for shit-shooting, joke-telling, ribbing, guffawing, and perhaps a teeny bit of drinking. Pat had some magical crystals that turned the fire pretty colors, only fire already IS pretty colors, but here he is performing the color-enhancement fire wizardry:
And here we have a view of Pat's camper, lovingly decorated with flamingo lights and HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
There was a bit of a baldy theme among some of the guests.
As the evening wore on, it was more and more fun, but Rose and I got progressively colder. Also, the more we looked at this:
…the more we started to think about the Super 8 Motel, which was a mere ten-minute drive from us. They have warm beds there. And bathrooms that are right in the same place as where you're sleeping. It just so happened that I had a non-cancelable reservation at that particular establishment, because we thought my mom was going to come. So about 2:30 a.m., we hopped into the car and were off, only to return in the morning, bright and early because BREAKFAST! That's the best part of camping!
Pat's daughter Molly made a huge feast of sausage biscuits and gravy, which, though I'd heard of it, had never eaten. Are you people familiar with this? Because YUM. Meaty and savory, it might be the most warm, satisfyingly delicious meal ever invented, and of course, one meat is never enough, so…
More smart cousins who had not slept over, like Mary Kay, came for the good stuff, too.
Sportsman's Park has its very own population of cats, so when this particularly hungry guy showed up, somebody was kind enough to make it a little somethin' to eat:
Of course, Pat has a particular dislike for cats, because deep down, he is a black-hearted, cold soul. I was just too lazy and full to get up and move the liquor bottle out of the camera's way:
Ha ha ha ha! Don't worry, he didn't actually golf the cat very far.
|
