Being a girl and all, I mostly just eat giant gusts of wind, ice-cube run-off and other such hun cal items, which I share with the trash (that is, when I'm not calling my other girlfriends fat, crying over cats named Poops, and thinking about how I'm feeling about how I'm thinking). But there's one time of year when I'll give myself a break and that time is now:
Indeed, the first two weeks of spring is the only time of year worth being in DC. The blossom's are bloomin', the weather's nice and, most importantly, the grills are lit. However, it's also the time of year during which those of us who actually live here must be extra careful. *sneeze*tools of tourists*sneeze* Oh, and it's also prime allergy season. But those are small drawbacks -- drawbacks I dare say you will not think about -- when you're shoving delicious meats in your mouth on your and your friends' decks, patios, loggias and other such curtilages. Or even around a hobo fire in a steel garbage can that you started behind Bobby Van's Steakhouse. Really, any open space with scraps of meat around will do.
But unfortunately, this season lasts only about two weeks before the non-fire-related heat rolls in and makes everyone feel, look and smell like they just took a sulphur bath between the rolls of a fat tourist's back. It gets gross here.
But you know what's not gross? Well, besides delicious meats in your mouth, that is? MINI GOLF!
So un-gross is mini-golf, that I brought out my very best velvet blazer to inaugurate the season. And yes, I paired it with jorts (duh) and a Vladimir Putin shirt (unfortunately, not pictured).
Luckily, however, I was able to photograph the creepiness of Woody's Mini-Golf's guardian android, whose faux-flesh is already literally melting off (which begs the question, how does he ever survive summer?!):
I'm sure Woody grilled and ate those endangered animals that are so gracefully tacked up behind him in his shack, but meat's (finally) not the focus here. Instead, let me get down to critiquing the sh*t out of this course, which is apparently ranked as one of the Top 5 in the nation, according to Newsweek magazine, according to Woody's Web site. Or whatever.
Let's just say I'm skeptical. The "Perils of the Lost Jungle"-themed scenery was pretty fantastic, but the actual holes? Yawn. All the drunk monkeys and drunk monkeys with dynamite were simply sitting in trees, not interacting with the you and the holes in any way, shape or form.
And I don't know about you, but when I'm knocking around balls, I want monkeys with dynamite to interact with my holes as much as possible. But then again, who doesn't?
So I don't know...I was a little disappointed. However, haters gonna hate and whether Woody's belongs in the Top 5, or whether it's just 18 office-greens with a bunch of tacky sh*t thrown up in the trees, I suppose, really doesn't matter. Eh. I guess it was still pretty fun (despite that it was in Dranesville, Va., which is a name so proper unto itself that I'll let you all just make your own toilet jokes about it).
And speaking of fun and toilets...wait...actually, not speaking of fun and toilets (for once): Capital Weather Gang Predicts July Temps in April.
I told you there was only a two-week window here. Dang. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some Lost Balls to peruse.