Never did get back to you about frolf. Mac, a buddy from work one level above Acquaintance, his 3-year-old son, another guy and I went frolfing 2 weeks ago. Despite my rant, Mac’s boy was a cute well-behaved urchin except when he rolled off a bench and landed face-first in the dirt (he was OK).
The game of frolf requires strategy, skill, etc. I can’t imagine who came up with it or why since unlike bowling it’s a poor excuse to drink, though you’re walking often and far in hot weather.
I went frolfing again this morning after staying up very late on my “Friday” last night. I was late to pick-up Mac, who this time came alone. He’d wanted me to bring some weed….because I was late to get him, I brought a J along, but when he got in my car he already stank of the shit.
We went to a different park, much bigger with longer throwing distances (most holes were 3 or 4 par) and once again I borrowed a disc from Mac.
During the 3rd or 4th hole I sent his disc into a wide ditch filled with knee-high water. I was fully ready to buy him a new one but I’ll be damned, he waded in there, treading carefully along the clear, slimy bottom and got it. After that I didn’t do as well as last time. The water traps defeated any boldness I had, or had left.
The breeze was cool but it was still a disgusting humid Florida morning. Before and after the water trap incident, Mac kept hitting me up for the J. As it’s easy to out-argue a stoner I deflected his rap. I was disgusted that he kept asking for more after he already stank like a bong in a hippy’s den and I was already pissed about having to carry the shit in my car. The draconian punishments the State metes out to stoners it should be giving to child molesters, but that’s nothing to argue about after you’re pulled over. I didn’t want my car seized and shit job lost over a fucking joint, as well as being arrested by some dumbass cop who smoked plenty more weed in high school than the amount I did (none).
Yes, after the water trap my heart wasn’t in it anymore. After 5 holes we left the park and went to the local store that dealt solely in frolf sporting goods.
There were 30,000 or more discs in there, neatly stacked in crates separated by tabbed dividers. It looked like a record store, if records meant sleeveless albums of fat neon wax. I couldn’t believe all the shit in there. For a made-up sport, frolf has all the trappings of a real one, including a poster of its friendly jug-eared pro champion, Ken Climo (pronounced KLEE-mo).
The shop’s owner was a slightly chubby but cute chick. For the record I’d rather have fucked the proprietor of this establishment than ever play frolf again. But life has a way of rolling you forwards long after you’ve died inside, so I bought two frolf discs for $15, savoring the $1 discount. The Frolf-chick remembered Mac from his last visit though he didn’t think she would. He’d set himself apart by being stung by a bee in a park. She remembered.
I got rid of Mac fast after that. I had shit to do today and no more time to waste.
I don’t know what to do about frolf. I learned what I needed to know, mainly that I don’t have a secret talent or gift for it. Odds are before reading this you’d never heard of Climo, but as the Tiger Woods of Frolf, he probably makes 30 to 40K a year, not counting endorsement deals.
That’s what I’d like, I think, a well-paying but not too-well-paying career where I’m famous or interesting to only a few and no one else on earth gives a fuck. Kind of like blogging.
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