The Putt-Putt Championship of America

Editor’s Note – I’ve always wanted to write an Editor’s Note. It makes anything you write afterwards positively drip with gravitas. For instance… Editor’s Note – While the Albanians were pummeled with hockey pucks, they were still unwilling to regurgitate the goldfish. Makes no sense, but the words “Editor’s Note” made you read it differently, doesn’t it? Anyway… Editor’s Note – I’ve got way, way too much shit on my plate tonight to write a real post, but instead of posting a goofy video or a smartass email fucking with someone who wants to use my site to advertise chocolate butt-plugs, I’m instead going to re-post something I wrote over 12 years ago on an old, long-forgotten site. So if it sucks, it’s because I was young and hadn’t learned how to suck less yet.

The Putt-Putt Championship of America

I was flipping around the dial today, trying to find one channel with interesting programming on it out of the 900+ channels I get thanks to DirecTV. No such luck. I did, however, run across something that pretty much blew my mind. You know that episode of the Simpsons where Bart and Todd Flanders get into a miniature golf contest, and it’s televised complete with commentators? That really happens, and I saw it on ESPN. No shit.

The Putt-Putt Championship of America was broadcast on ESPN probably due to the fact that all the real athletes were busy buying steroids, or possibly laying the pipe to some road beef. Just not a lot going on in the world of sports at the time, I guess. The crucial final between long time rivals Ypsilanti, Michigan and Richmond, Virginia was broadcast in its entirety, if you don’t count the 9 holes they didn’t show, and the time they had to stop for a potty break, because the competitors (6 to a team) were all 11 or 12 years old. And you know what? I think they were drugged too, because normally if you put 12 pre-teens in front of a camera, they’ll reach critical pre-pubescent mass so fast that you’ll find yourself knee deep in Pokemon cards and Brittany Spears paraphenalia before you even know what hit you. But these kids were quite the professionals, owing possibly to the fact that their parents were holding guns to their heads.

No, just kidding about that! There was no evidence of weaponry, but there were a lot of parents watching, and they didn’t seem to mind reminding the kids that they’d better do well: “C’mon, Timmy! Sink this putt and I’ll give Mr. Whiskers back!”, or “Ok, Jane, just relax and try to tune out the fact that there’s a nationwide audience of people looking at you, and no one has to know you still wet the bed as long as you make this putt!” So the kids behaved as well as possible, although I swear a couple of times I saw a couple of the boys giving each other noogies in the background.

Noogies: As old as childhood itself.

The proceedings were well covered by a couple of crack, savvy profesionals who were selected to cover the event because they accidentally said “Fuck” while covering the Masters. I mean, I’m assuming that’s why they’re doing it because if someone ever asked me if I’d like the opportunity to be the color commentator for the American Putt-Putt Championships, I’d ask them if they’d like the opportunity to lick my sweaty ballbag. They said all the usual sports cliches, and even got a little critical when an 11 year old boy missed a putt, which I thought was hilarious. You announce miniature golf for a living, and you think you can talk shit about anyone else? They also actually said that phrase that absolutely slays me whenever I hear it uttered in the context of a golf tournament: “What do you think he’s going to do here, Phil?” Uhhh, gee, let me think. I think he’s going to try to hit the ball into the hole, Skippy, you fucking ignoramus.

I’d watch this for about three minutes, then they’d cut to a commercial break always led off by a spot promoting the wonderful world of Putt-Putt. This was fascinating. Apparently, after the guy who hands out the putters leaves, all the brightly colored golf balls sprout sunglasses, play video games, and sing a merry little song (“I’m a nut-nut about putt-putt!”). I thought that I’d seen this in person once, but it turned out I was on acid.

So, back from break now, and the two teams are locked in a death struggle for the title, or they would be if anyone really gave a rat’s ass about this, which no one apparently did except the announcers. So, putt-putt, yawn-yawn, and the winner is… who fucking cares. Oh, wait a minute, the American Association of Putt-Putt Courses cares, because they handed out two giant novelty checks for $2,000 (to Richmond, Virginia who apparently won), and $1,000 (to Ypsilanti, Michigan for having such a pathetic town name). But now that I think about it, those checks don’t even cover air fare, so it’s possible that not even the American Association of Putt-Putt Courses gives a damn.

That’s sad. It really is. I remember when putt-putt was a large part of my life. My mom would ask me, “Where are you going tonight?” and I’d say, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe to go play some miniature golf,” and I’d go right out and get high in the woods with my friends. To this day, my mom probably thinks I’m the world’s best miniature golfer. What has happened to this great country when putt-putt is no longer a context for abusing drugs, but a context for boring people to fucking tears on TV?

Anyway, the show ended with the presentation of those checks and a sappy montage sequence that made everyone look really bored, but bored in slow-motion. So, you may be thinking, am I now a “nut-nut about putt-putt”? Let me answer this way… Pass me a fucking beer-beer.

Pro-tip: Putt-putt is a lot more fun after consuming beer-beers.