Frank McCabe – Page 8 – Can I Be Frank & Crew?

VA-SUCK-TO-ME

Dusting off another “oldie” this week in honor of my good buddy, Mark, who is going through this very passage of life today. Godspeed, sir.

(First published in October 2012)

Again, I am dropping my proverbial pants (pun intended) to review a topic with you that is very personal, intimate and embarrassing all in the name of humor; Vasectomies. More than three years have passed since I went through the incredibly easy, but equally humiliating, “procedure” of being neutered. Snipped. Spade. De-manned. Vasectomized.

As I watched (well, not ‘watched’, I mean ‘witnessed’…I mean 2^nd hand…bad choice of words – ‘HAND’ – …damnit! Nevermind.) my best friend go through this passage of life for a significant population of married-men-with-children-who-want-no-more-children-and-their-wives-are-finally-putting-their-foot-down-after-all-their-bodies-have-endured-giving-birth-to-your-kids-you-selfish-son-of-a…population, I was reminded how difficult this journey was to manage.

Before you jump down my throat, ladies, I do not mean to suggest that this minor surgery is nearly as physically painful (in most cases) compared to delivering a child, but I will contest that the mental anguish which we brave SeaMen endure is worth recognizing. I am not even going to attempt to compare this experience to the ‘joy of childbirth’ (isn’t that what you all called it BEFORE you went through it?). I won’t do it, but let me relay the internal strife we, as men, must undergo to get through the process of being neutered like your cat, Mittens.

A walk down men-mory lane….

May 2009

After 3 children and nearly 3 years since the birth of our youngest, my wife ‘encouraged’ (and by ‘encouraged’ I mean ‘demanded’) that I ‘cut the cord’, ‘close the barn’ and host an ‘all-things-must-go sale’. I finally conceded to her and decided it was my time to step up and face the scrotal-carving music. After all, she was right. She bore us three beautiful children (of course, I did have ‘something’ to do with it, no? Probably a bad time to bring up that old adage about Men vs. Women? If you put 1000 women and 1 man on an island, in theory, you could have 1000 children one year later, while if you had 1000 men and 1 women on an island….yeah, right….forget I mentioned it) and it was time to move on to the next phase of our lives as parents.

Visit 1: The Consult

Before we soon-to-be-sterile suckers get the privilege of having our seed bag scraped open by Dr. Notsofeelgood, we must first take part in a ‘consult’ visit. Without knowing what to expect during this initial visit to the medical practice of Dewey, Pinchem & Howe, I did have the presence of mind to know I was going to be a nervous mess, so I did the logical thing; drank heavily before my appointment. After several mini-van sized draught beers I was ready to embark on this testical journey. I calmly walked into the office, checked in, sat down and tried to relax before I met with the nurse practitioner, Ms. Squeezy Van Nuttwister. Now, I am no Norman Einstein (by the way that is a reference to a slip of the tongue by NFL Legend-turned-Sportscaster, Joe Theisman. I know Einstein’s first name was really ‘Harold’) but I do not recall any ‘consult’ I have been a part of which required another party to take a firm grasp of my twig and berries for exploratory purposes? Maybe I am wrong but my recollection of a, so called, ‘consultation’ usually involved a conversation, a cup of coffee and an exchange of business cards. Never heard of the kind that would require my ‘potato sack’ to be fondled by Nurse Ratchet?

I tried to provide some levity to the uncomfortable situation.

A serious and stern woman, the nurse attempted to be very business-like in her pre-surgery instructions to me…

“Now, you will need to shave your scrotum just prior to the procedure,” she explained.

“Just another Thursday at the McCabes, Sweetheart,” I sarcastically responded.

Without cracking smile, she continued….

“Also, following the procedure, after adequate rest you will need to ejaculate approximately twenty-five times before returning with your test sample.”

“Makes sense to me. By my calendar I should be back here on Tuesday then.” The oh-so-funny-inebriated-and-terrified-patient retorted.

Finally, a small smirk appeared on her face.

“Look, I am sorry to be a wiseass. I am just really jumpy about this whole thing,” I implored.

“Have no fear, Mr. McCabe, this is actually quite an easy, quick and painless procedure,” reassured the person who has never had a ‘ball and chain’ attached to her anatomy.

I walked out…not feeling a whole lot better about the situation.

Moving on…

Visit 2: V-Day

You may recall when I wrote about Panic Attacks in which I describe an episode of anxiety so worrisome I actually called an ambulance to come to my aid. What I did not include in that story was that incident occurred just 2 days before my castration vasectomy. Coincidence? I think not.

Walk into ‘Dr. Kevorkian’s Office of Ill Repute’ in a state of pure horror for what was about to happen to me and ‘my boys’. After what seemed to be an eternity out comes my buddy, Sir Balldesack, to murder the fruitful existence of my ‘two oldest friends’.

A funny and affable guy, Dr. Derection, guided me to the operating room. After a few jokes and some general guidelines to how he was going to be ‘Deconstructing Harry’, I actually breathed a sigh of relief.

First he was going to inject a local anesthesia into ‘the twins’? OH SHIT!

Here it comes…..ah…ah……whew, that actually wasn’t too bad. What’s next, Doc?

Oh, time to slice open the ‘bag of peas’ (which, ironically and literally, would become my best friend during recovery)? Super.

Eyes clenched (along with my butt cheeks), I anxiously awaited the pain to begin. Amazingly, it was not so bad and before I knew it, it was over.

“Mission Slay Bells”: Complete.

Amen.

After a few more off-color ‘cookie’ comments from Dr. Junkenremover, I was on my way home to rest my, now retired, ‘Generals’.

Job well done, men. Thanks for the memories.

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe

The Birth of Elizabeth: 10 Year Anniversary edition

I post this one every September 10. If you have read it before, move on with your day. If not, here is the strange timeline of events leading up to the birth of my second child – 10 years ago today.

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Planes, Trains, & Automobiles: The Birth of Elizabeth

September 7, 2004

My wife (we’ll call her “Amy”) and I were making one of our final visits to the OBGYN. We were anxiously awaiting the arrival of our second child (we did not know the sex). Amy was thirty-six weeks pregnant and up until that point things were moving along as planned. I had a two-day business trip to Chicago the next day. Following the exam I asked our doctor, “Doc, Am I OK to go on this trip?” She quickly responded, “Oh yeah, Amy is not going anywhere yet.” Amy gave us both a look of disappointment as she realized she had another four weeks of the long, hot remaining summer days ahead of her. However, I felt a sense of relief as we walked out of her office to return home.

September 8

The next day I took off for the Windy City feeling relaxed.

I arrived late afternoon as there was little business to be taken care of that day. The next morning I was begrudgingly starting an intensive two-day training session on a software technology (yeah, real fun stuff!). My colleague and I grabbed dinner and found a pub in Chicago that was actually showing our beloved Red Sox. The Sox were, once again, making a spirited run toward the playoffs, but we all know they will ultimately let us down, right? (of course, you remember what happened that year…but I digress). So we watched the game and shut it down early knowing we needed to be in a classroom bright and early.

September 9

Next morning arrives with no surprises. We jump on the subway out for the Hyatt at O’Hare Airport. Class began promptly at 9AM. Within five minutes of listening this geek instructor speak I knew I was in for a long couple of days. Not fifteen minutes into this torture, my cell phone (rudely NOT set on vibrate) rings. It was Amy. Normal circumstances I would push her right to voicemail but with Baby #2 pending I knew I had to take this one. I provided the instructor and my classmates with the gratuitous, silent, “Excuse me…I’m sorry” as I slithered out of the room to answer the call.

“Hello” I answered.

“Hey”

“Hey, what’s up?

“Well…(she giggled)..I am in labor.”

Gulp.

“You’re what! But Dr. So and So said…but…what…huh?”

Amy calmly explained that she did not feel “right” that morning and decided to bring herself to the local walk-in near to our home (We chose to deliver our children at a large Boston hospital – 30 miles away). Apparently, the doctor quickly concluded that Amy was, in fact, in early stages of labor and should get herself into the hospital as soon as possible.

After about 10 minutes of freaking out in the lobby of the hotel, I got a hold of myself and took action. I called my office and asked my assistant to look into the earliest possible flight out of Chicago to get me back to home. Within a few minutes she had me booked on 12:45PM flight from O’Hare to Logan, arriving in Boston around 3:45PM.

3:45PM! DAMNIT! This was baby #2. Number 2 always comes faster than number one (at least that is what I remember from reading the cliff notes version of some baby book in the bathroom). The panic set in again, but this was the earliest option.

I rushed back into class, relayed the story to the group and ran out to the sounds of applause.(stay tuned, this is only the FIRST time I would receive applause on that fateful day).

Ran outside of the hotel and hailed a taxi.

“O’HARE…AMERICAN. Step on it!”

Did I just say ‘step on it’? What am in some 1960s Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin movie? Why am I rushing? I had 3 hours to kill in the terminal before I was going anywhere. Nonetheless, it seemed like the right thing to say. What I did not realize in my overexcited state was that I was ALREADY at O’Hare. Remember? What ended up being a fifteen minute and $12 cab ride could have actually been a 7 minute walk if I was at all lucid in my thinking. Threw the cabbie a $20 and ran out. Again, why am I running?

Arrive at the American desk, collect my ticket and I am good to go….in exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes from now. Uhg.

I frantically paced around the terminal like a cocaine smuggler at the border for about 20 minutes. Called Amy to check in. All was well and she was closing in on the hospital thankfully chauffeured by my mother (Love you Mom!). OK, good. Now what do I do?

I grab a newspaper, but who am I kidding, I can’t read now. Try to grab a bite to eat. Not hungry, too nervous. I needed to calm down. Wait a minute, maybe a little dose of the old Irish cure-all would do the trick (stop judging me – I know it is 10:30AM – I am about to have a baby 1000 miles away!)

I slide into one of the many airport gin joints where there were only 2 other patrons (you know, because it’s MORNING TIME!). Both were women, each enjoying a ‘morning refreshment’ prior to boarding their respective flights. I took a deep breath and ordered a beer. As I guiltily sipped my drink, I slowly calmed down. The first one went down surprisingly (and by ‘surprisingly’ I mean ‘expectedly’) fast. I quickly reordered another and sat back.

The bartender (we’ll call her ‘Judy’ since I was in no position to remember names), a very nice older lady with a thick Chicago accent, and I began to talk. Within a couple minutes I was relaying my story to Judy and explained why I found myself pounding Budweisers at 10:30AM and have no baggage whatsoever. She was very gracious and comforting, ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, you’ll make it’. At that point I realized my two co-alcoholic lady friends had been listening to my every word.

I was rapidly peppered with questions and comments

“Ah, how nice!” one exclaimed.

“Is this your first?” the other chimed in.

“Are you nervous?”…it continued.

(My inner monologue screamed – “YES! DAMN RIGHT I am nervous! Why do you think I am sitting at this bar at 10:30AM you crazy booze-riddled broads!”)

But what actually came out of my mouth was…

“Yes, thank you, it is exciting.”

“No, this is our second. We have a boy at home now” and

“No, not really.” (bahahaha…they knew I was lying)

I chatted with ‘Saucy’ and ‘Boozy’ for a while which, in hindsight, was a helpful distraction. By the time I next looked at the clock it was only about an hour until my flight. I paid the tab and headed for the gate. Slightly relaxed at this point, I made a few random, useless phone calls to friends and family informing them of the pending arrival…and would I make it in time?

Finally…12:45PM. I quickly boarded. I had never looked at my ticket but to my dismay I was in Row 28, Seat E (yeah, that’s right, the middle seat). Are you kidding me? I sat for a moment but then decided to see if the flight crew could help me out at all with a placement closer to the front of the plane. Every minute is going to count, right? I want to get off this bird the second it lands – seat 28E will cost me a minimum of 10 minutes. So, I make my way to the back where the flight attendants were prepping for take off.

“Excuse me. I hate to be a bother but is there any possibility of moving to a seat closer to the front of the plane?” I requested.

“I am not sure we can do that, sir,” stated Julio, the flamboyant flight attendant explained.

“Well, my wife is actually in labor in Boston, so I was just hoping to….”

“OH MY GOODNESS, HOW WONDERFUL!” exclaimed a suddenly slap happy, limp wristed Julio. “I WILL LOOK INTO IT RIGHT NOW! OOOOHHH!!”

Not five minutes later…Row 7! Still in seat E, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll take it!

I look to my right and, low and behold, my friend Boozy was sitting next right next to me!

“WHOA, it’s you!” I said.

“Yes, I told you I was headed to Boston, remember?” stated Boozy.

“Oh yeah! That’s right” (I had no clue she had said that…I was slightly buzzed and as nervous as a pregnant cheerleader at Prom)

“Before I forget,” she said “here is my card. I work for a children’s book publisher. Let me know how you make out. I’d be happy to send you some books for the kids”

Wow. This day is getting more interesting all the time.

Before I could utter a thank you to Boozy, my new Man-crush, Julio, was dropping nips of Dewars on my lap.

“Here you go, Mr. McCabe. I want you to relax and enjoy the flight! You are going to me a Papa soon,” Julio giggled as he sashayed back to his station.

Unreal. Free books, free booze. I am liking this emergency evacuation thing.

Off we go to Boston. Surprisingly the flight seemed to go by rather quickly. (3 beers, 2 shots of scotch and some useless conversation will do that I suppose).

The Captain comes on and informs us we are making our final approach into Logan. Thank you for flying with us, blah, blah, blah. I grabbed Julio as he glided past me.

“Julio, one more favor, buddy. If at all possible, can you help me get off the plane first so I can get out of the airport as quickly as possible?”

“Of course! This is just so exciting, I…”

I interrupted him “Yeah, I know, Julio. Thanks. But if you can please be discreet, I just want to get up and get off.

“Of course”

Thirty seconds later.

“Ladies and gentlemen we have a special announcement,” I hear Julio squeal over the intercom, “The gentleman, seated in Seat 7E, is an expecting father! His wife is in labor right now!!!!”

Once again, the applause and cheers begin like the sounds of the Fenway faithful during a late inning rally.

So much for being discreet, Julio. Thanks, pal.

In any event, all of my fellow passengers were very gracious. We landed, everyone wished me well and let me disembark first off the plane.

The sprint begins; again. I am running through the terminal like a madman. Cell phone is now completely dead, so for all I know Baby #2 is already here. Nonetheless, I had to do my very best to get over to Brigham and Women’s Hospital – about 20 minutes away – and hopefully catch the birth of my child.

The automatic doors open to the street. Daylight! Almost there! Need a taxi. Look to my left…of course…fifty person line all waiting for cabs. COME ON!

I decided this was no time to be patient and polite, so I take myself to the front of the line. There stood a very large, rough looking red headed American Airlines employee assisting folks with taxis in an orderly fashion. Well, here it goes.

“Excuse me, sir,” I uttered meekly.

“WHAT!?!?!” he screamed as he snapped his neck around to see who was bothering him during the rush hour

“Sorry to bother you, but my wife is in labor over at the Brigham and I was hopin…”

“NO SHIT! GOOD FOR YOU BUDDY! EVERYBODY LET THIS GUY THROUGH!”

I skipped past the line and my new giant friend whisked me into the next available cab.

“Get this guy over to the fucking Brigham fast!!!” yelled Big Red.

Thank you, boss!

Off I go again.

“Ahmed” (my Middle Eastern taxi driver) wanted to do nothing but ask me questions and make small talk. By now, I am starting to feel tired, the nerves are in full gear again, and I can not reach my wife or anyone else for that matter. I just want to get there and, God willing, see the miracle of birth for a second time. Shutup, Ahmed!

Pull up to the curb.

Pay the fare and begin my race up to Labor and Delivery, floor 10.

Get in the elevator. Come on….hurry up – I thought to myself. I could be missing everything. Get to the nurses station. “Amy McCabe’s room???!!!”

They direct me down the hall.

I run into the room. I made it! I witnessed the birth of, what turned out to be, my first daughter, Elizabeth…..22 hours later.

Come on!

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Back to School: See ya suckas!

” Bloody lips and cherry wine
Moonshine in your hair
Just keep staring at the sun
Pray for summer’s end”
– Foo Fighters

Christmas? Pretty good.

Birthday? It’s OK.

Thanksgiving? Getting warmer.

No, the best day of the year is Back to School Day!

High Fives all around, TB!!!

That glorious September morning when we usher off our little cherubs to annoy a new pack of adults for 6 hours per day. Many Moms and Dads wax sadly about the end of summer and all the fun and great times they had with their kids during their warm weather hitus from their pencils and books. With all due respect; piss off people. I’ll offer up the gratuitous “I love my kids more than anything” blah blah blah crap so none of you dinks call DSS on me, but if I am being truthful (as all you parents should be about this subject), back to school day is. just. awesome.

Not sure about you, but by the dog days of summer, my kids are in need of the structure of school, the discipline of homework and simply just need to be the hell away from us.

To my teacher friends, thank you. You are doing God’s work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to freshen up my wife’s Manhattan.

See ya suckas, don’t forget your lunch boxes!

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Grain Alcohol & Violin Making? Makes sense…

ANNAPOLIS, Md. (AP) — Binge drinkers and frat boys aren’t the only ones despairing over Maryland’s new ban on grain alcohol: Violin makers who used the liquor to make varnish are also affected.

Silver Spring violin maker Howard Needham tells The Washington Post (http://wapo.st/1sVB1y0) that nothing works better than Everclear grain alcohol for making the varnishes he uses to repair chipped or broken musical instruments. He’s been hoarding whatever grain alcohol he can get his hands on since the ban took effect last month.

Other violin makers report similar concerns.

Maryland became one of several states to ban sales of alcohol at 190 proof or higher. Leaders at Maryland’s colleges and universities supported the ban, saying students abused grain alcohol as a cheap way to get drunk.

Information from: The Washington Post, http://www.washingtonpost.com

Kool Aid. Fruit Punch. Lemonade. Sure, all of those mix pretty damn nice with a little moonshine. But violin making? Come on dude! I am sorry, Mr. Needham (if thats even your real name?) but today I am calling you out on your bullshit. I have never heard such a terrible reason to deny you simply want to get black-out, white-girl wasted in my life. This lie ranks up there with ‘the dog ate my homework’, ‘Eskimos are real people’ and ‘smoking is bad for you’. Simply not true.

Let me tell you what I think is really going down here. Ol’ Howie Needham was sick of his wife’s constant yapping and decided to turn it up a notch. Mrs. Needham is probably one of those crazy, controlling broads that won’t let hubby suck down a 12 pack on a Sunday afternoon after cutting the lawn. What is a man to do? Exactly. Tell the old lady you have taken up “violin making” so he can secretly get Keith Richards-wrecked in the garage? I get it, man. Well played. Tell that ball and chain anything you need to so you can drink yourself blind on Everclear, but please don’t whine to the press and try to sell it to the American public you brilliant degenerate maniac.

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Uncategorized

Making JAWS funnier…

All Shark Week banter coming at ya over the next few days!

Stumbled across this one. Below is a relatively clever play on words utilizing the actual script of JAWS but replacing the word “shark” in any given line with “Jimmy Page“.

No disrespect to Led Zeppelin, but are you shitting me? Disappointing…like the prom and my actual life

“Understand you’re having a little Jimmy Page trouble.”

“Don’t know what that bastard Jimmy Page’s gonna do with it. Might eat it I suppose.”

“So, eleven hundred men went into the water, three hundred sixteen men come out. The Jimmy Page took the rest, June 29, 1945.”

“You see a barracuda, everyone says, ‘Huh? What?’ You yell ‘Jimmy Page,’ we’ve got a panic on our hands on the 4th of July.”

“Why don’t we have one more drink and go down there and cut that Jimmy Page open?”

“All this machine does is swim and eat and make little Jimmy Pages.”

“In recent days a cloud has appeared on the horizon at this beautiful resort community; a cloud in the shape of a killer Jimmy Page.”

“And the idea was, Jimmy Page comes to the nearest man, that man, he starts poundin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’, sometime’s the Jimmy Page go away, sometimes he wouldn’t go away. Sometime’s that Jimmy Page he looks right into ya, right into your eyes. And another thing about Jimmy Page. He’s got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eyes. When he comes at ya, he doesn’t seem to be livin’. Until he bites you.”

“I’m not saying that this is not Jimmy Page. It probably is, Martin. It probably is.”

“You go inside the cage, cage goes into the water, you go in the water, Jimmy Page in the water; our Jimmy Page?”

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High hopes that were just not met…like the prom or my real life (damnit, this hurts when I really think about it).

Point being is I love this idea for a funny game (likely a drinking game) but couldn’t you have done better than “Jimmy Page”?

I have some submissions that I believe make this more clever….

Replace the word ‘shark(s)’ with….

– Clown
– Meth/Meth heads
– Midget
– Smurf
– Circus Freak
– NAZI
– Carson Daly
– Pubic Lice

Give it a shot.

What do you got? I know you can all do better as well?

BONUS FOOTAGE: JAWS in 30 seconds via cartoon bunnies, http://www.angryalien.com/0804/jawsbunnies.asp

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, Sports

Me and David Feherty

Entering golf’s last major championship of the year, the PGA Championship, I was reminded of a story I am not so proud of.
“I didn’t quit drinking because I was a bad drunk. I quit because I was a spectacular drunk. It got to be like a video game, where you get to the highest level and it’s not even a challenge any more.”
-David Feherty

This quote, and the others you will read here, come from the guy I consider to be a golf, but more so a comedic, genius.
If you do not know who David Feherty is, you should learn. Nevermind, I will just tell you. David Feherty is an Irish-born former professional golfer turned commentator/analyst/talk show host/comedian. He has been described as a combination of Johnny Carson and Oprah Winfrey for his quick wit paired with an ingratiating persona that makes his interviewees at ease at all times. And while he had a magnificent career standing over a golf ball, he was born to stand behind a microphone.
As a guy that grew up watching Sunday afternoon golf with my Dad, David Feherty became a part of our routine at a young age. His captivating Irish brogue coupled with his humor made this sport, synonymous with the words ‘boring’ and ‘too slow’, interesting and funny.
David Feherty was something I wanted to be in many ways.

“That ball is so far left, Lassie couldn’t find it if it was wrapped in bacon.”

In 2005 I had the unintentional pleasure of meeting David at a conference in West Palm Beach Florida. On behalf of my company I was exhibiting at a trade show event with a colleague of mine and David Feherty was the keynote speaker. As we registered for the conference, I opened the program and discovered this fortunate coincidence.
“Oh man, David Feherty is speaking here,” I squeaked like a 12 year old heading back stage to meet Harry Styles.
My comrade-in-conference was not a golf fan and did not have a bloody clue who David Feherty was and why I was so excited.
“Dude, guy is awesome. Wicked funny and talks about golf,” I retorted like that same 12 year old girl talking about her boyfriend Tommy who sits in the first row of 6th grade.
“Um, ok man. Never heard of him,” he gingerly responded.
“Pffft,” was all ‘Susie Pigtails’ could muster.

“Watching Phil Mickelson play golf is like watching a drunk chasing a balloon near the edge of a cliff.”

Conference opens but my only focus was catching my man DF speak rather than targeting that next big client. As I stated above, he is truly a stand up comedian so I made sure I was available to attend his speech. When I snuck my way in to the (customer-only) luncheon event I wiggled my way to the back so I could casually catch all of his wit which would surely be wasted on these propeller-headed-tech-geeks attending this conference. And so it went…side splitting jokes….spit up your drink stories…and so on. It was an hour of awesomeness. Totally lived up to my expectations.

“I lost 150 lbs. if you include my wife.”

I darted my way out the door and back to my sad little exhibit booth. I was pumped. My buddy was there waiting….and waiting to make fun of me.
“Well, I hope that was as good as you thought it would be?” he grimaced as he sat bored anticipating the next rush of nerds to come speak to us.
“It was…you should have come with,” I proclaimed.
“Yeah, whatever. (pause) You know, it just hit me,” he said with a light-bulb-over-the-head look about him. “This dude Feherty is a better, cooler, more successful version of you?”
“Huh, what the hell are you talking about,” I growled.
“Yeah, he is. He is a better golfer than you. Funnier than you’ll ever be. He is even more Irish than you. It all makes sense to me now. You want to be this guy”
Hit a nerve like an errant 1 iron.
“Shutup,” I weakly replied.
Maybe I did have a slight man-crush/bro-mance/Elton AND John type thing happening. So what?

“When CBS came to me and asked me to do on-course commentary, I said, ‘You know, I’m only 37, I still have hopes of [playing] a little better.’ So they told me what they were going to pay me, and I said, ‘You want to buy a set of clubs?’ “

Time ticks by. The day ends. We learn that David will be signing autographs and giving some putting lessons to guests of the conference. Color. Me. IN.
Without getting in to it I waited in a short (45 minute) line. Got his autograph (alright fine, and a picture). It was, again, cool.
Shook his hand, gave him my spiel about watching him on Sundays with my Dad yada, yada, yada. He gave me the politest ‘good for you now move along you creep’ smile and head nod. I don’t care. I was content.
Here is where it gets interesting.
Fast forward about 4 hours. We’ll call it 11:00PM. All of our working duties were long over and we decided to grab a (one more) night cap and call it a day. Enter the lobby bar of this plush resort and order a cocktail. As I awaited my drink, I happen to look down the bar and notice (a now famously sober) David Feherty sipping something ‘brown’ with one of his mates.
“Excuse me,” I golf whisper to the barkeep. “Would you mind sending Mr. Feherty down a drink from us and I’ll have whatever he is having.”
Bartender gives me the eye roll but moseys his way down the long bar to offer my offer. He quickly returns back.
“Mr. Feherty says thank you, but he is all set.”
“Oh.” I sadly mumble
“And by the way, he is drinking a double Black Bush (an expensive Irish whiskey)…neat”.
“Yeah, right, that sounds good. I’ll have the same”
My buddy gives me the hairy eyebrow and questions this decision.
“Come on dude, you are gonna start drinking straight whiskey now? We have a long day and…”
I cut him off.
“Dude, will you shut the f&$% up. I’m fine. I’m Irish too. I love this stuff,” said the liar.
Big. Mistake.
After a couple of giant vats of warm whiskey from the homeland I was acting like the spawn of Doc Holliday and Frank Sinatra.
The last thing I recall I was yelling at the bartender something along the lines of “You can never beat up your father no matter what age you are!” (Pretty sure I challenged him to an arm wrestling match as well)
The last thing that actually happened, according to my buddy, Sober McHatesme, was I literally fell off my barstool. Flat.on.my.face.
Apparently I was making a trek toward Feherty to confront him for not accepting my drink. Yeah, that will impress him.
More apparent, my man Feherty had departed the joint an hour earlier.
Yeah.
So…that’s my story.
Shutup.