Following a severely damaging loss by the Phillies on Halloween night, I couldn’t bring myself to feel much more than a long line of painful fucking disappointments. What’s the old saying? “When life gives you lemons…kill yourself.”
This all spawned from one deep and emotional conversation involving a childhood memory and a long strand of let-downs beginning with a toy maker 1994.
There was this guy called Robert B. Fuhrer, who did not have a very good name to be in the toy industry in the first place. If he was getting into this business, he should’ve changed his last name to FUNner or something–just so he didn’t sound like a fucking Nazi.
Anyway, this Nazi started his career in 1990* with an instant classic game called Crocodile Dentist. It became an instant classic when every douchebag kid would cry until they got it, only to find out that the game sucked ass.
If you don’t remember–or you had a shitty childhood–Crocodile Dentist consisted of players taking turns yanking out the teeth of a helpless plastic animal before his jaw snapped shut, pinching or dislocating your fingers.
Then, the Fuhrer turned around and said to an imaginary associate (for the purpose of this fake story), “You know what kids would love more than jamming their fingers into a heavy plastic trap?”
“No, what?” responded the imaginary toy-maker.
“A golf game that throws the ball back at you!” Fuhrer screamed in his stupid face.
The imaginary toy-maker thought about this for a while, and soon responded, “Sounds like the greatest fucking idea I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life,” which was an odd manner for an imaginary employee in the toy industry to conduct himself.
“But,” continued the fictitious man, “You’ve already done a Crocodile game…what did you have in mind for this one? A Hippo perhaps?” Because Hippos and mini golf merge so well together.
“No!” exclaimed the Fuhrer while shitting his pants,”Crocodiles! Crocodiles all around!”
And thus, Crocodile Golf was born–and then promptly changed to Gator Golf, because it sounded more bad-ass.
If you don’t remember Gator Golf…what’s wrong with you?
Look at how much fun those fucking kids are having! They’re even willing to trust an Alligator in a suit (something you should never ever do) just to play it!
Then, they talk their functionally retarded dad into playing it and he fucking misses. How?!
His son knows the score though…he basically screams, “Get out of my way, faggot! I’ll show you how men play golf!” What a great sport.
So how did Fuhrer contribute to my crippling depression? In the commercial, they raise the question: “What could be greater than golf with a gator?” A charming and praiseworthy rhyme, I must say.
But the question is what bothers me so much. What could be greater than golf with a gator? I don’t know! And I fear that I’ll never know. Every moment of my life is an agonizing step backwards, forever chasing that ultimate high which I know I will never again achieve.
What could be greater than golf with a gator? Nothing. And when this is how you live your life, every day god is mocking you.
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*A fact that I made up.