As much as I love it, even I couldn’t stand sitting inside  watching the “Twilight Zone” marathon from sunrise today until sunrise tomorrow. So when Nicci asked if we could go outside for a fun afternoon away from the television, I could not find an excuse to stay indoors. We started driving up the 101-North, going nowhere in particular, until Nicci realized we were approaching Castle Park. Ah yes, a quick game of miniature golf would certainly raise my spirits! It was sunny and moderately warm today, and a quick spin around the three zany courses at Castle Park seemed like a great idea. That is, of course, until we paid our entrance fee and found ourselves waiting behind the family who were just finishing the first hole of course number one. That’s when we met Purple Shirt and William, two of the worst human beings ever birthed into existence.

It didn’t take longer than five minutes to realize that I hated both Purple Shirt and William with a passion. After Nicci and I finished the first hole (I scored a 3, she scored a 4), we turned around and watched in horror as we realized the family had still not finished with their first putts. My heart sank as I watched the older (aunt?) woman in the quintet struggling to putt a golf ball slightly uphill. It took her four or five shots until she finally reached the top level of the green, and then the fucking golden-haired devil child in the stupid dweeb glasses kicked her ball back down the hill and made her start again. That was my introduction to “William,” demon spawn of Castle Park, possibly-retarded nephew of Purple Shirt.

I’m not an impulsive person when I’m angry. For example, I am rarely if ever frustrated enough to honk my horn while sitting in traffic. Also, I am rarely if ever prone to violent thoughts. Call me apathetic or jaded or what-have-you, the truth is I just don’t care enough to wish death on anybody. Still, one of the only things that drives me utterly insane — something I absolutely cannot stand and hate to witness — is the sight of a small child wearing glasses. I don’t know what it is about them, but when I see a kid (we’ll say males between the ages of four and eight) wearing glasses, I am compelled to walk over to him, pick him up by the legs, and swing his little body against a nearby wall. Kids in glasses are so fucking creepy and dorky and bratty and annoying; a kid wearing glasses is just about the worst thing in the world.

…And then there’s purple shirt. Purple Shirt singlehandedly ruined my afternoon. I was looking forward to enjoying three exciting games of mini golf this afternoon. I thought we’d cruise along because no one wants to play a silly kid’s game on New Year’s Day. That’s when people stay at home and rest. Most businesses aren’t even open. Sadly, when planning this last minute excursion, I forgot all about the inbred hick Midwesterners who descend upon Southern California during their schools’ winter breaks. After days spent standing in line at Universal Studios or Disneyland, of course they’d choose Castle Park as a fun, chill place to spend an afternoon. I don’t know if it was a momentary lapse in logic that ruined my day, or maybe it was just bad karma, but for some reason we were saddled with the burden of playing golf behind a family of five straw-haired, red-state loving, athletically-and-intellectually challenged retards. Purple Shirt was the fucking worst of the bunch. Way worse than a kid in glasses.

I was amazed she could hold her golf club in both hands without accidentally beating in her own brains. She was so slow, and so inept, and so fucking retarded, she couldn’t possibly function on her own without a team of around-the-clock handlers trying their hardest to keep her alive. By the time we’d played three holes I was ready to break William’s nerd glasses and slit her throat with a shard of glass. I couldn’t take it. My guts were tying themselves in knots. My brain was in danger of rebelling against my body and going postal. Fucking Purple Shirt, she spent, like, fifteen minutes trying to tap a small ball into a moderately-sized hole from a distance of no more than four or five feet.

It got so bad that the couple playing behind us asked to join Nicci and I so that they wouldn’t have to wait as long. An hour earlier, when we started the first hole, those dumbfucks were playing the second hole. In front of them, there was a family playing the fourth hole. By the time Nicci and I had reached the thirteenth hole, there were three groups behind us standing around waiting for their turns, and I could not see another family playing anywhere in front of Purple Shirt, William, and the rest of the All-Nebraska Retard Squad. All they had to do to make us happy was ask us if we wanted to play through, but they were so fucking self-absorbed and self-righteous they completely neglected the clusterfuck that was forming behind them. Not only that, when mom and William would move to the next hole, dad, Purple Shirt, and the guy who somehow found a loophole in the legal system allowing him to marry her continued playing the previous hole. I was under the impression that a family trip to play mini-golf was all about the child. Once the child finishes his turn, everyone else cheers and moves along to the next hole. You don’t fucking hang around and finish putting your own ball when you don’t have to. Fucking Purple Shirt never learned this valuable life lesson. She would stomp her feet and whine whenever she miss-hit the ball, which effectively transformed Castle Park’s “Course 1″ into the 405 Freeway during rush hour.

When our party of four reached the 18th hole, nobody cared anymore. I didn’t even want to finish, I just wanted to throw my ball away and make up a score for the last hole. There was no way we were going to press our luck and try one of the other two courses. We undoubtedly would have found ourselves behind those fuckers again. Instead, we returned our putters and left Castle Park. That’s when we saw Purple Shirt and her weird fetishist husband counting up their scores. I think the picture below sums up my sentiments.

God dammit, Purple Shirt, you are the worst. You are the worst fucking person ever.

“Oh, look! I scored a 112! If It wasn’t for those 37 shots on hole number 10 I could have won!”
Fuck you. Purple Shirt, you are the worst.

Dillard Chandler – Jesus Says Go (You hear that, Purple Shirt, GO!)
Pink Anderson – You Don’t Know My Mind (Like how I want to swing little kids in glasses against a wall)
Six Organs Of Admittance – Creation Aspect Fire (more like throw them to the fire)
The Stoneman Family – Black Dog Blues (Oh yeah? I’ve got the Purple Shirt & William Blues)
Paul Duncan – In A Way (More like “In My Way, right Purple Shirt?)

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