• Menu
  • Menu

Fear and Loathing at the PGA Championship Vol. 2 – Confessions of a Drunk, Gold-digging, Golfer-banging Dancer

Special to GNN and AWITP by Yale Bluer

CHARLOTTE, NC – She had a voice like Foghorn Leghorn and the manners of Yosemite Sam. She’d fake-baked her skin to a brassy orange and streaked her spaghetti-straight hair a metallic gold. She wore ass-high, crack-tight, denim short shorts, wedges, and a scoop top two sizes too tight. She said she was 34, but my guess is she’d also tell you she had a par when she really had a bogey.

Her face wore a mean sneer – she was a few drinks in already – and thought the bar at {name redacted], a straight up place in a hip, upscale section of Charlotte, was a good place to plot revenge on some lover of hers by sport-fucking a pro-golfer.

According to her, she’s good at this. (F$#@ she’s great, just ask her!)

I didn’t notice her at first. I was working on my story for the magazine, laptop in front of me, a Dark and Stormy at one elbow, a plate of exactly seven Cajun BBQ wings at the other, watching the Friday golf highlights and chatting with the fan next to me. One minute she wasn’t there, the next minute she was there, drink in hand.

Although several people were well within earshot, her immediate audience was a young guy in a T-shirt that said “Beer me.” He sat at a 6-person high-top behind me, and he spent the entire meal turned around in his seat, completely ignoring both his five friends and the plate of food in front of him. For the entire hour and forty-five minutes his burrito, clam strips, and French fries sat untouched.

Forgive the double negative, but I couldn’t not overhear them, if you understand the nuance). They were right in my ear, and so obvious to both me and to the fellow next to me that not listening wasn’t an option.

I was trying to ignore her and write, but when she started talking about gold-digging for pro golfers, that’s when I started taking notes on that topic too. It was so absurd…

I don’t normally care about any of this gossip. I rarely listen to it and write about it even less. After all, I’m a writer and a journalist – you get double the silence. But what are you going to do? The fact that people are out there preying on the players is newsworthy, especially when one of them is dumb enough to get liquored up and start dishing about it.

In the interests of journalistic purity, I am simply reprinting her pearls of wisdom as she bequeathed them from on high…very high, considering how many drinks she had.

Let’s be crystal sparkling clear about something – I didn’t talk to her, and this is no way allegorical. In fact, since I was taking notes, I tried t be as invisible as possible, frequently minimizing the screen or going back to the article I was writing so as not to have her or the guy behind me see what I was actually typing. I closed up shop when I noticed my neighbor was reading my screen too closely. When he leaned in and asked me, “How much did that guy say he could bench press?” I told him 220, then figured, with the scene in he can, I better hi-tail it outta there before someone else read my screen too closely.

In any event, if anyone wants to know what those hot women in the skimpy outfits holding Player Guides are thinking, it’s pretty clear from this. Question number one is “Where is he on the money list?”


“I’m a dancer and I like to date the golfers”

“People at the tournament were totally looking at me and talking about me, but I don’t care.”

“The golfers have so much to think about when they’re playing – like with the wind and the grass and the trees and stuff. It’s really stressful for them…and I’m like “Just hit the ball, Dude!”

I told this one player, “Dude, I’ll drop you like third period French.”

“I don’t even like golf.”

“Tiger Balm? I thought it was sun block – It burned so bad, I was screaming in the shower.

“How you getting home?” (She asks the boy.)

“Their wives…or their husbands…they don’t like me…”

“I’m in a profit and loss business.”

“’Will he build me a house?’” I ask myself.”

“I named my dog after me…now when you call [name redacted] we both come. I even have insurance on my dog.”

[The boy, who hasn’t touched one bite of his tamale, clam strips, or French Fries tells her this next one] “I can bench press 220.”

Her – “OOOOOOOO…..I miss a guy that can do that.”

“He’s like dumb and dumber combined. We’re in bed and he has to lay on the pillow, because the beds not soft enough for him….“He hurt his back after we tried to break the bed having sex. He runs into the bathroom screaming Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. And then five minutes later, we’re fighting over which hospital to take him to. Weirdest experience. So much for “Don’t worry I’ll be right back.”

Boy – “I haven’t had the opportunity to have great experiences in bed like that…I’d be afraid…”

“I’m sure you’d be awesome,” she said.

“I went to a new gyno, and he called me back directly. And my regular doctor? I don’t get calls from him, but I get calls from gynos.
I’m like with this guy, and I’m all like, “How was your day? How was your week? Meanwhile I can just go to the gyno and get laid…and insurance pays!!!”

She snorted. Wine came out her nose. “Hold my glass,” she laughed, and ran to the bathroom.

[Looking at the boy in the “Beer me” t-shirt.] “You need it. You need it bad.”

“Three straight nights I had to tell him to get out from in front of my house.”

“I’m going tomorrow and Sunday, his wife will be there. Awkward!!!
It sucks if I break up a family, but if that guy’s got money, I would take the whole thing for my kids. Can you imagine all of us at parent teacher conferences? Awkward!!!”

“He had to hire a rapper to write his rap song.”

“These guys – they are just appetizers to me. I put ‘em on my plate and eat them like French fries. I gobble them up.”

“Did I mention it’s my birthday? Happy birthday!” Now I want a piece of cake!”

“I only fly Spirit Airlines.”

“My mom has been in the biz since 1971”

Boy: Wanna go get a drink with me?

Her: No, I’m gonna go home and watch HBO. I love every HBO show.

“You’re from Walla Walla?” [she asks him] Waaaalllla walla walla walla walla!: she ululated drunkenly. “Walla walla walla oh my gollaaaaa….I got ring around the collarlalalalalalalala!”

I suddenly had a coughing fit. The cajun hot sauce…that’s what it was, not the fact that I actually heard someone ululating…That’s also when my neighbor started to get too up close and personal with my computer screen, and I decided it was time to skedaddle, “interview” in the can. For those wondering, she didn’t mention any names, and I wasn’t about to ask. I know when to keep my quill in my inkpot…both literally and figuratively.

Funny, but just a few hours earlier, a random security guard leered at a scantily clad woman as she trolled the grounds of Quail Hollow. He caught my eye looking at hm as we passed each other.

“Charlotte is Cougar Central!” he advised. I thought he was just over-sharing, but he was a local…he knew far better than me…