Dead Fish in a Box

The chronicles of a suburban fishpimp trying to keep it rural.

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Location: United States

Wednesday, September 14, 2005


I played in a client's charity golf tournament today. I love golf, especially when someone else (i.e. my employer) is paying. I talked my boss, the one who played football for the Oregon Ducks, into sponsoring a hole, and since his back is all messed up I got to use the slot that comes with the sponsorship. He came to the fishhouse from the wine business, so I was glad to see that I got put in a foursome with a bunch of wine guys - they all knew him from back in “the day”, and we got along swimmingly as we all had stories to tell. When we came to the hole my company sponsored I broke out the Fishhouse Invitational commerative golf ball from out company tourney last year in honor of our generous donation. Did I mention that I'm a very poor golfer? No? Well, I am. And, as we were all cracking jokes at my boss's expense, I absolutely shanked the ball off the tee. The overwhelming irony is that on the hole the fishhouse sponsored, using a fishhouse ball, I smashed it right into the ass of a mallard duck sitting on the edge of the water hazard.

We all enjoyed the symbolism.

The wine guys were a lot of fun. They kept taking my cell phone and to leave my boss vulgar messages with my name on his caller ID. The best part, however, was that they all hooked my up with bottles of wine as we departed. Makes me want to be a wine salesperson, I'd smell better and have better samples to give out. And I'd get to play more golf.



This may seem like common sense to most of you, but today I learned that after being sick for two days, then golfing with wine guys who stash multiple bottles of delicious Zinfandel (aka "aiming fluid") in their golf bags it is not a good idea to come home and try to go for a bike ride or any magnitude. Oof!


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