I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not going to do it.
"Smits didn't do shit last year," you're saying to yourself. "He's just going to take credit for his wife shitting out a couple of babies. What a chump."
It's not fair for me to talk about how I watched my wife nurture my seedlings to life over the course of the longest nine months of our lives. How I rubbed her swollen feet on the couch every night, because that's all I could do to ease some of the pain in her aching body.
It's not fair for me to talk about the emotional turmoil I went through in the weeks before my seedlings hatched, about how I took stock of my entire childhood and wondered whether I could give my nippers the same memories I cherished while avoiding the regrets that I still carry with me.
It's not fair for me to talk about the emotions in the car ride to the hospital with my wife, knowing that we'd never never ride in the car again as a family of two. I don't remember what we said. I don't remember if we said anything at all.
It's not fair for me to talk about how I was brought to tears when the doctor held up two healthy babies from the other side of the operating curtain. And then the horror I felt as my wife passed out on the table due to rapid blood loss. Baby A and Baby B, as they were known to everyone else in the operating room, cried for their mother after the trauma of birth, yet she could not yet hear them. I tried to comfort them, but my callused hands were no substitute for a mother's warmth.
It's not fair for me to talk about the first week after we brought the little mites home and our comfortable, bohemian lifestyle was obliterated by heaps of shitty diapers, a carpet saturated with projectile vomit, an tsunami of baby toys, and a bad case of acid reflux in Baby B.
It's not fair for me to talk about the joy of watching the babes grow, if even for a time period as short as 4 months by the close of 2015. No words can adequately describe what it feels like when you come home from a grueling 11 hour work day to see your own younglings' faces light up with joy as you walk through the door.
It's not fair, and I'm not going to do it.
As you know, I'm not a religious man. But I'll be damned if it isn't some sort of small miracle that I can stand before you today as the patriarch of the Smits clan, family of four. I entered the year 2015 as a strapping, formidable powerlifter well on his way to squatting 500 lbs, a rare feat for a 181 lb mammal. By mid-summer, I was broken both physically and emotionally. I questioned my ability to rise to the occasion in any endeavor. Am I capable of raising two tadpoles? Can I successfully navigate them through life over the next 18 years? Will they respect the weakened, damaged shell of a man I feel I've become?
My burning questions cannot be answered for years to come. But like a rose which grows from a crack in the concrete, the resurrection of my manhood has begun. I'm ejaculating onto my wife's bosom once again, a few stray droplets flinging up on her cheeks and onto the comforter. I'm stacking paper like a motherfuckin printing press. Middle class style.
The American dream is still alive. Get married, have kids, get house. One and two are in the bag. I spent 2015 putting in work, so that one day I will jizz all over number three.
I shift my weight slowly back and forth from one foot to the other. My eyes are wide open, unblinking, yet I see nothing of my surroundings. The only thing occupying my mind right now is this third and final squat attempt. My heart is racing. I take deep, deliberate breaths in an effort to calm myself.
"Load the bar to 390 and set the monolift to number 13 for Stephen. Kyle is on deck, Jake is in the hole, and Jason is four out."
My heartbeat surges despite my attempts to assuage the pounding in my chest. I start putting my belt on and try to shift my focus to something other than my vital organs. I remind myself how fast and light my warmup attempts were and that I crushed my first two attempts. This is mine.
As I chalk up my hands I hear the clang of the monolift hooks being closed. The meet director comes over the loudspeaker again: "And that is a good lift. Load the bar to 405 and set the monolift to number 14 for Kyle . . ."
No more time to think. It's fight or flight.
I focus all of my mental faculties on exactly two words: Speed and Tension. There's no use trying to recall every cue that I've used during training to target weak points and execute the perfect rep. This is game day. There are no style points. You either squat the weight or you don't. Months and months of training have ingrained the proper mechanics into my muscle memory. Now's the time to just be a fucking savage.
I grab a handful of chalk with my left hand and toss it into the palm of my right. The familiar feel of magnesium carbonate caked onto my hands brings me a little bit of comfort.
“The bar is loaded.”
I walk out onto the platform and face the crowd for the third time. I don’t look at anyone. My focus on the task at hand is complete. I don’t even speak to the head judge when he asks if I’m going to be walking the weight out of the monolift. I just shake my head to indicate that I won’t be.
My face is expressionless as I place my hands on the barbell. Middle fingers go on the rings like I’ve done for literally thousands of repetitions back in the gym. Hands set, I thrust my head under the bar and search for that sweet spot just above my scapulae where I want the weight to rest. The skin on this spot is callused and discolored from all the times it bore the weight during my hour and a half long squat days. I place my feet directly under the bar - a little bit wider than shoulder width and toes pointed slightly out.
Everything in place exactly how I want it, I take a huge breath deep into my diaphragm and lift the bar off the hooks with conviction. It brings me great confidence to lift the bar like this. I’m sending the message that I own this weight. I expel all the oxygen out of my lungs with a long exhale.
The head judge drops his hand and yells out the command, “Squat!”
I take another deep breath, deeper than the last, and hold it while consciously contracting every muscle in my body - the valsalva maneuver. My contracted glutes bring my hips in perfect alignment with my spine and my elbows torque forward after firing my lats. My back is now utterly rigid.
Muscular tension radiating throughout my body, I begin the descent. First the knees and hips unlock at the same time. Next I push my hips back and incline my torso forward so that the bar stays precisely over the middle of my foot. I continue downward into the hole until I feel my hamstrings and glutes stretched to their full lengths. This is the signal I’ve been waiting for.
In one infinitesimal moment in time, I reverse the direction of the bar with a violent drive upward with my hips. The fact that my spine is rigid allows this force to be transmitted to the barbell. Initially I move quickly upward, but then I hit the wall, the sticking point midway between the top and bottom of the lift where I must grind the weight up with every ounce of testicular fortitude I can muster.
My hips have done their work. My quads kick in to bring me back to the same position I started. I try to push my head back so that my torso returns to it’s upright position. Time ceases to exist. The crowd is cheering me on and my back spotter is screaming in my ear right behind me, but in this moment I don’t hear anything. It feels like I’m moving a millimeter an hour. I close my eyes, bear my teeth, and grind, quads firing quite literally like they never have before this attempt. This is 20 pounds more than I’ve ever squatted in my time on Earth.
Finally, I feel my knees lock back into place and I am standing erect facing the head judge again. He yells out the final command, “Rack!” and I place the bar back onto the monolift hooks. My face is beat red and my eyes are bloodshot from the pressure generated during the attempt as I turn around to see the judges’ verdict. I made it through the attempt, but it still must be determined if the crease at my hip joint descended lower than the top of my patella.
Three green lights flash across the board, indicating that my attempt was deemed GOOD. I have been officially judged as a 405 pound squatter!
I big, toothy smile breaks across my face as I walk off the platform to celebrate with my wife and fellow brothers in iron. I set the goal to squat 405 four months ago. Now after several months of focused training, four days a week, between an hour and a half and two hours per day, I have reached my goal. It is a positively euphoric feeling.
-
Several hours later, I have finished my first powerlifting competition, going 9 for 9 in my attempts and setting personal records in each lift. I am riding the highest of highs. One that can only come after months of delayed gratification via waves of doubt and disbelief that I could reach my goals, and difficult training sessions when I didn’t feel like leaving my apartment to go to the gym. But then a funny thing happened.
As I drove home my feeling of accomplishment started to fade away. I thought to myself, “Now that I know I can add about 30 pounds to my squat in 3 or 4 months, I should be able to squat 430 or 435 by March.” The pure happiness I had felt in the moments after that last squat attempt had already vanished as I began dreaming about what I could accomplish at the next meet. Before the sun had set on my grueling four month journey to 405, the sound of that number no longer brought me the same level of happiness as it did only a few hours ago.
Such is life in the iron world - a self-imposed Sisyphean existence. My frame of mind doesn’t allow for long stretches of comfort. By bed time I hear the iron calling me out again. This journey has no end.
After recently experiencing an alarming rise in blood pressure due to the amount of BuzzFeed links seen popping up on Facebook, Smits finally saw the error of his ways and embraced the new cultural phenomenon. If everyone loves BuzzFeed, it can't be so bad right? So what if it's just a cesspool of stolen images and shallow content, is it illegal to reminisce about your childhood or think cats are cute? I don't think so!
After dedicating several of his precious minutes on Earth studying the content of the popular website's top articles, Smits now believes he has what it takes to become a BuzzFeed "writer." That's right, ye olde readers, a few minutes is all the time it takes to be good at something. Malcolm Gladwell and his 10,000 hours can drink my grundle juice.
KeyPAP encourages our readers to vote for your favorite article idea by writing in the comments section below. If you choose the winning article, Smits will personally deliver you a swift kick to the cunt! 16 Reasons A Show You Watched A Couple Times During Your Childhood But Barely Remember Makes Your Generation Way Better Than The Current Generation
Remember that you enjoyed watching reruns of Growing Pains or Step By Step when you were a little kid? Yeah, those shows were way better than today's shows. I said it, so it's true.
22 Ways Being a [insert common profession here] Makes You Better Than Everyone Else And They Had Better Appreciate You Now
The only thing Facebook-addicted nurses and social workers like more than helping others is making sure everyone knows they're helping others.
25 Sluts You Probably Contracted Syphilis From If You Went to [insert large university here]
Thank you, JuicyCampus
14 Of The Cutest Cat Faces
Sad, happy, confused . . . it doesn't matter, the single female 30 and 40somethings will eat this shit up faster than you can say "spinster."
9 Reasons Why [insert celebrity here] Is Seriously The Best Person Ever
Did you fantasize about thrusting your meat stick through Angelina Jolie's beef curtains when you were a teenager? Did you know she adopted a shit ton of little black babies? She was hot and appears to be a good person based on what Us Weekly writes about her. BEST. PERSON. EVER. Don't worry, I'll be sure to upload every hard nipple/pouty lip photo of her you ever jerked off to.
It's working isn't it?
11 Ways Liking [Insert poular generagtion y children's movie here] Makes You Unique
Remember Toy Story? I fucking loved that movie when I was a kid! Since it was popular and taught us moral lessons which seem to trouble the world now, it makes me super unique. Wait . . . what were those morals again? Let me Google them real quick.
101 Recycled Memes I Found On The Internet But Didn't Cite
I collected every meme my "friends" ever posted on Facebook, and put them into this article. It was a lot of hard work saving each file.
An Elderly Woman Walked Into The Grocery Store To Buy Peanuts, But You'll Never Guess What Happened Next
Hinting at an ironic twist? Check. It doesn't even matter what happened next. She could have just paid for the peanuts and walked out of the store. As long as you get a picture of an old broad with a bag of peanuts in her hands and post the link on Facebook, we get more traffic. That's all that really matters in the end. Gotta pay the bills, homeboy.
69 Of The [Greatest or Worst] Things That Could Possibly Happen to a[Teen/20something/30something] from [insert state or city here]
Are you a 19 year old dude who grew up in Pittsburgh? What if they made the Squirrel Hill Tunnel a couple feet wider so that every shitty motorist on the Parkway didn't get claustrophobia at the tunnel approach and slam on their breaks . . . wouldn't that be the BEST GOD DAMN THING EVER? Fuck, I'm getting a half-chub just thinking about it.
The Most [Inspirational/Disturbing] Video You'll Ever See About Cat Vaginas
Women love cats and men love vaginas. It's biology, idiot. "But how could a video about cat vaginas be inspirational?" Exactly . . . *click*
500 Cats That Will Make You Go LOLZ
Cat pictures with cute captions that someone else wrote. It's spinster heaven and that lifestyle is totally in these days.
17 Reasons All Men Should Act More Like [insert effeminate, submissive, diffident male character from popular '80s, '90s, or 2000s sitcom]
e.g. Ross or Chandler from Friends, Robert from Everybody Loves Raymond, Carlton from Fresh Prince, Corey from Boy Meets World, etc. 41 Facts About You That Make You Just Fine The Way You Are
Forget that New Year's resolution to lose 20 lbs, don't you know that beauty is on the inside? Also, please don't look at my next article.
The 20 Hottest Actresses Of All Time But Forgot About . . . Until Now
This article doesn't even require a single written word, just stolen pictures of a few actresses showing sideboob or rock hard nips. Genius!
Wow, Just Wow
This is a nauseating phrase parotted by those in exasperation over a controversial topic. If I just use the phrase as the title and put a picture of someone like Barack Obama or Bill O'Reilly in the link, I'll be sure to get like a zillion pageviews!
If You Don't Like This Video You Don't Have A Soul
Everyone wants to be "liked" (lulz). I'll just use a title that plays on their insecurities and link to some emotional video like Kony 2012 or a Dove fat chick commercial.
Thanks for reading, everybody. Let me know which ideas you like best!
In this edition of the KeyPAP perspective series we will be taking a closer look at Milk, and I will show you why milk is in fact, Weird. Unfortunately for our regular readers across the globe I will be restraining myself, with no small effort, from using the salty language that you all are accustomed to. For this I apologize, but I feel that this message must be suitable for the masses. As for why salty language is not suitable for the masses, well that is a topic for future perspective series articles, but I digress.
Many young children have been encouraged to drink their milk regularly so that they will grow big and strong. Regular Milk consumption has been encouraged to help form strong bones. In practice, however, it has been observed that not only is milk bad for your bones, and a poor source of calcium for the body, but that it may actually increase your risk of fracture. That, of course, is not what this article is about. If you would like to learn more about why milk may be detrimental to your health then click here. This article will be focused on the less important yet more entertaining issue of how weird milk is and why everyone ignores it.
The first point I would like to make against cow’s milk is that this is what a cow looks like:
It is truly a filthy disgusting animal. When most people think about cows they think of the black and white cartoon drawing of a cow on their milk carton. It is some abstract thought that they associate with milk, like a logo. A cow is not a logo, it is a real, huge, smelly, gross animal with machines sucking liquid out of a smelly swollen veiny pouch between its legs. That should be enough to help you understand that milk is weird but I shall continue.
Milk itself is not weird when used for its real purpose. When babies drink their mother’s milk it’s awesome. The mother produces the perfect food to help her baby grow, a food completely designed for babies with the perfect amount of nutrients, immune boosting bacteria, and the like. It’s really incredible. What blows my mind is that people, at some point, decided that we should start drinking cow milk, designed for baby cows. This must have seemed preposterous the first time someone drank it. I have to believe it was in some sort of survival scenario. Over the years it seems that humans have not even made a valid attempt to make milk any less weird. It’s stored in a waxy cardboard box for god’s sake. Even crazier is the fact that human milk is now considered more disgusting than cow’s milk. Think about it, if you let your child go over to his friend’s house and his father said, “well for breakfast we gave them some cheerios with some organic breast milk” I think that father would probably have charges pressed against him. He would be considered a sociopath if not a borderline criminal because he offered your child milk from a human instead of a fat corn fed anonymous cow from god knows where.
Do you know where human milk comes from? It comes from the most publicized, shown off, and obsessed-over part of the female body. But it is somehow considered disgusting to the general public (to be clear, I am not in favor of drinking breast milk as an adult; I’m just highlighting the fact that it should definitely seem less weird than drinking cow’s milk). I dare you to go to a farm, find a cow, take a big whiff of its essence, and look it straight in the udders. Then say, "I’d like to drink whatever liquid leaks out of that!" Now human milk is for babies and jokes in movies. I saw a movie where a man drinks breast milk by accident and in the TV version of the movie that part was cut out! He drank it from a glass and all they did was say it was breast milk and they cut it from the movie. Hypocritical? Maybe if you have ever seen a commercial with The Rock's upper lip smeared with the remnants of whole milk or watched an Indianapolis 500.
In conclusion I hope that you have come to understand that cow’s milk is weird and that no human should ever drink it. I would be lying if I told you that I am never going to drink cow’s milk again, but I will at least feel ashamed of myself when I do. And that, I think, is better.
As 2013 A.D. ended as devastatingly as it began, I reviewed the year in my life thus far. I am in the process of accomplishing my goals: I will be graduating with my Doctorate in Podiatric Medicine in May 2014, the KeyPAP flourishes brightly as ever, and overall I am happy with my life and the direction that it is in. However, as I perused the annals of my individual 2013 history, I came to a part in my life that I was extremely dissatisfied, and, frankly, thoroughly disgusted with.
The paunch.
In its noun form, it means “a large and protruding belly; a potbelly.” Or also, in nautical terms, “a thick mat that prevents chafing.” I believe the first is more appropriate.
"This turtleneck is so good at being thick and the prevention of chafing. I get Bonair's every time I put it on!"
I let myself go. I became lazy, unenthused, and bored with exercising. In 2013, I viewed working out not as a goal to continually better myself, but as an obstacle that lay between my studying, eating, and facebooking. Luckily, two things changed my thoughts:
#1 – Consistent harassment from the Founding Fathers of the KeyPAP.
Harassment not in the sense of, “I’m going to file charges against you for harassing me and saying mean things and I am not MAN enough to handle it.” But the good kind. The kind that stirs in your loins, lights a fire from deep within, and looks to expel all of the terrible things inside of you in order to make yourself the best possible human. Dr. Funk, Smits, the First Ladies, and lastly, The One Known as Beebles (TOKaB, for short) all constantly harassed me, and rightly so. I was still muscular, but shapeless. I had a midsection of Play-Doh®. I felt as doughy as an uncooked stromboli. I needed the abuse, I thrived off the abuse, and I turned it from a negative to a positive.
#2 – Smits MANLY performance as the first ever KeyPAP 2013 Strongman Performance of the Year.
We all saw the videos, heard the grunts of pain and agony, but reveled in his strength and mastering of the perilous weights. He achieved victory as only a man of the KeyPAP can: through a skin-tight, nearly bulge-showing, wrestling singlet. Smits was a man of action, and I wanted it back.
I yearned for the sound of iron. I missed the feel of the cold, never wiped-down, probably loaded with tetanus and MRSA, steel on my hands. I pined as I would get ready to shower, seeing the abomination that I had become. “If I don’t think I look good, surely the opposite sex thinks I’m revolting,” thoughts ran through my head. I needed to change.
I began to eat healthier and less. I also began running to the gym from my Philadelphia house. And when at the gym, I worked out like the old days of college - like a MAN. No more of this, “I think I’m going to do 3x20 bench press of 135 lbs.” crap. I began to bulk back up, like only a meatball can.
I am still in the process of changing my lifestyle and body, but I am fully committed. 2014 will be the year that the paunch is defeated. Even as I sit here now, my muscles call out from within to be burned. As the great Arnold once eloquently stated:
I will leave you all with 2 inspirational quotes that I use daily, while in the process of Purging the Paunch™.
“Be strong and of a good courage. Act for the best, hope for the best, and take what comes . . . If death ends all, we cannot meet death better.” – James Fitzjames Stephen
Recently every single member of the Keystone Professional Association of Pennsylvania came down with recurring bouts of Acute Onset Bonair's Disease, or Bonair's for short. What are the signs of this devastating illness and what can you do to prevent it? You've come to the right place to learn, ye olde loyal readers.
Background
Bonair's is defined as the involuntary engorging of the penile tissue. It is sometimes unrelated to sexual stimulation. For example, one may find upon waking up that he has a raging boner.
Pathophysiology
Erection is the result of smooth-muscle relaxation and increased arterial flow causing engorgement and rigidity. See image below:
"Awww SHIT, I got Bonair's again!"
Epidemiology
Frequency of Bonair's is three to five times a night during REM sleep, upon wakening, and throughout the day whenever a man is exposed to titillating visual or psychological stimuli. It typically persists from puberty until death.
On average 99.9% of males on Earth are victims of Bonair's. Eunuchs and diabetics comprise the 0.1% of the unafflicted male population.
Bonair's is painful at onset, but has an almost nonexistent mortality/morbidity rate. One notable exception is that one sex scene in Golden Eye where Xenia Onatopp squeezes the life out of that guy with a beard while trying to administer the antidote. More on that later . . .
Bonair's afflicts unsuspecting males all over Earth, regardless of race and age (provided the male has already reached puberty).
There are two common causes of Bonair's. The first is a reflex erection caused by a full bladder because of nerve stimulation in the spinal cord, which is most common upon wakening. The second is also a reflex erection, but it is caused by physical or psychological stimulation increasing blow flow to spongy tissues in the penis. Consequently the blood engorged penis becomes grossly erect.
History
Patients with Bonair's report recurring unwelcome erections. Bonair's usually manifests itself in an episodic manner. The physical stimuli may change over time, but the symptoms remain the same throughout one's life. For example, a man may have had bouts of Bonair's while looking at his father's hidden Playboy magazines in his teenage years, while courting a co-ed during a college party in his early twenties, and while watching Brazilian fart porn during his 30s and 40s.
Physical
Inspection: obvious raging erection is a key physical finding in the examination process. Flesh need not be fully exposed to the medical professional for accurate detection.
Palpation: a rigid erection will be felt upon stroking the organ.
Differential Diagnoses
Phone in pocket with protruding antenna.
Lab Tests
Blood work.
Porphobilinogen (PBG) measurement.
Nocturnal Penile Tumescence (NPT) Test - a device around the penis during sleep that detects changes in girth and relays the information to a computer for later analysis.
Erection Self Test (EST) - 1 cent stamps are bought in a roll. A string of several of these stamps are wrapped around the mid shaft of the penis. They are moistened and allowed to form a continuous ring around this portion of the penis. Intermittently, the man checks to see if the strip of stamps is broken. If so, this indicates that the shaft of the penis has swelled and hardened at some point. If the stamps remain unbroken, no erection has occurred.
Imaging
Dopplar Ultra Sonography to view blood flow through the penile shaft.
Penile Radiograph. See X-ray below:
Treatment
"Do you have Bonair's? Let me help you with that."
Alternative Care
Take a piss
Hire a prostitute
Use a fleshlight
Choke the chicken
Insert your member between two soft couch cushions
Insert your member into a warm apple pie
Insert your member into an attractive willing female companion's orifice
Insert your member into the orifice of an unattractive willing female with at least one redeeming quality
Medication
High quantities of alcohol
Trojan Extended Pleasure condoms
Cold weather
Swimming pool
Other dudes
Ugly bitches
Complications
When an erection lasts for longer than four hours the blood trapped in the penis is deprived of oxygen which can begin to damage or destroy penile tissue leading to disfigurement.
Public shaming and embarassment. To prevent detection in public, a man riddled with Bonair's would be wise to secure his shaft in the "headlock" position.
Blue balls.
Prognosis
The prognosis depends on the duration of symptoms, the patients age, and the underlying pathology. The time to treatment is the SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT FACTOR affecting the outcome of Bonair's. Education is the best way to avoid undesirable outcomes. Females especially should become familiar with the symptoms so that they may immediately apply the antidote upon detection of Bonair's.
Prevention
Current technologies have not evolved fast enough to prevent this pandemic. Men must learn to recognize Bonair's when they have it and women must have the know-how to administer the antidote at any given time.
Cast in the shadows of other more important life events, the 2014 Penn Tower Classic Qualifier was an illustrious tournament that did not receive the news coverage that it deserved. A homecoming of sorts, the KeyPAP clan returned to the illustrious Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to face off with the rest of the KeyPAP Tour for the right to compete in 2014's version of the most grueling tournament ever conceived - the Penn Tower Classic. There were no crowds or reporters for this round of golf, but the talent level on display for the KeyPAP Tour's Penn Tower Classic Qualifier was evident yet again.
With three months for the competitors to recoup their mental faculties after the hellacious 2013 Penn Tower Classic, Beebles, Dr. Funk, Smits, and Fez took to the 4 star Toftrees Golf Club in State College, Pennslvania in hopes of continuing their dominance as the top foursome on the KeyPAP Tour. The right to compete in the 2014 version of the Penn Tower Classic was up for the taking and no one wanted to let their chance at getting their name engraved on the PTC championship trophy slip away.
Fez came to the Qualifier with a chip on his shoulder after finishing last in this summer's Penn Tower Classic. He took an early lead at #1 and stood atop the leaderboard for most of the day. However, his actions at the previous KeyPAP meeting where he fell asleep during 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year Big Feast's performance for the ages, he incurred a vicious punishment: he would be subject to unlimited heckling from all other competitors while playing the final hole. This punishment proved to be fatal as Dr. Funk unnerved Fez during each shot on #18.
While Fez took great strides to prove his worth on the KeyPAP Tour after a last place finish at the 2013 PTC, another competitor's stock plummeted.
It is well known that Drake started from the bottom now he here. In polar opposite fashion, Beebles fell from his vulnerable position atop the KeyPAP Tour to the depths of complete and utter despair at this year's Qualifier. He started the day in fourth place behind Fez, Dr. Funk, and Smits and stayed there for the remainder of the day without even threatening for a third place finish. In fact, the 2013 El Campeon barely qualified for the 2014 Penn Tower Classic! Three straight shots into the pond off the tee at #9 sealed his fate before he even got to the turn. But be on the lookout for a rebound next summer at the 2014 PTC: predators are most dangerous when wounded, and this cat sure doesn't like the taste of defeat.
Smits played much the same in the Qualifier as he did in at the 2013 PTC. Inconsistent with an impressive birdie and several pars but also holes in excess of triple bogey. But he stayed in the hunt long enough to take the lead at #17. After hitting his best tee shot of the day to start #18 and the green jacket a few strokes away, however, he became more jittery than a junebug in a hen house. He sailed his second shot over the green and onto the unforgiving mulch. Several unsuccessful chip shots later he finally managed to get the ball onto the green, but by then it was too late to salvage his grasp on the lead.
Despite being down two strokes heading onto the tee at #18 and hooking his tee shot into the woods, Dr. Funk took a drop ball and placed a tremendous iron shot on the green for his third stroke while Smits faltered in the mulch. With a crisp 2-putt he stood alone atop the leaderboard for the only time that day. But he managed to do it at the only time that mattered: the end.
With no one there to fully chronicle the five hours of elite athleticism and mental strain which took place at the PTCQ, we are only left with pictures. Fear not, dear reader; though you won't be able to relive the experience of this event like you did the 2013 PTC, the pictures are as striking, graceful, and savage as a mountain lion.
Smits, Beebles, and Dr. Funk fuel themselves with Old Forge pizza and Busch Light prior to traveling to the PTCQ.
Fez ropes one onto the center of the fairway at #2.
An immaculate display of pure strength by Dr. Funk. Notice the whip he creates in the shaft of his driver just before impact.
Beebles makes up for his sliced iron shot with a beautiful pitch onto the center of the green.
With unbreakable concentration, Fez lines up his putt.
Smits almost gets a hole-in-one at #3. He went on to sink the birdie putt.
Despite being in questionable physical condition for this Qualifier, Fez led the tournament for most of the day. Here we see his paunch in full display while waiting for the green to clear.
Smits coils back just before striking this tee shot at the dogleg left #5.
In this sequence, Beebles lines up and hits a lengthy putt. Mere inches from a birdie against all odds, all he can do is laugh at how close he came.
Smits with a picture perfect follow through on this narrow tee shot through the woods.
Dr. Funk tees off at the picturesque #8.
Beebles crushes this tee shot into the night sky.
Beebles falters off the tee at #9. Three times in a row he put his tee shot into the pond before he managed to put stroke number 7 across and onto the fairway. He tries to laugh it off, but his body language confirmed that he was really crying on the inside.
Dr. Funk with an immaculate iron shot on #18. This shot put him on the green and allowed him to overtake Smits on the last hole for the green jacket and #1 ranking on the KeyPAP Tour.
Remarks made by Barilla Pasta chairman, Guido Barilla, in a recent interview with an Italian radio station have received a lot of attention on the interwebz over the last few days. Unfortunately the full interview is only available in Italian, therefore my information has come solely from American and British news outlets instead of the real source. All of these news outlets have slightly different translations of Barilla's comments, but the general message is quite clear. For those not familiar with the story, here is Smits' Official Abridged Summary:
Barilla does radio interview to promote his products
Interviewer asks if he would put a gay couple in his commercials
Barilla says no, he believes in the traditional family
Equality Italia, a civil rights group, calls for a boycott of Barilla products, and notoriously liberal news outlets, such as Huffington Post and The Guardian among many others, label Guido Barilla anti-gay and a bigot.
"Herr Smits, surely you won't use this news story to shove your political opinions down our throats on such a reputable website. You yourself have been known to despise such debates on account of people only becoming more entrenched and unwavering in their original beliefs."
Why, thank you, most trusting of hypothetical KeyPAP readers - you are correct.
The fact that there is backlash over Barilla's comments at all is what I find most disturbing. What this story boils down to is human rights focus groups and liberal media outlets who strive to spread the message of tolerance and equality for all people, are attempting to eliminate Guido Barilla's source of income because, ironically, they do not tolerate his worldview concerning gay families. The viewpoint is question is utterly irrelevant. Equality Italia has not called for a discussion or that he step away from his position as chairman. No, they are coming after his bread, his ability to provide for himself and his family. If you don't agree with our agenda then you must be destroyed.
What's most dangerous about stories like this is that they're covered up under the noble guise of human rights. But make no mistake, this kind of mentality allowed to permeate a democracy is unmistakeably poisonous. A minority focus group which has the power to crush anyone who doesn't agree with their views is called an oligarchy. I don't think that's what the Founding Fathers had in mind.
Sadly, rather than defending his opinion and his right to have one, he issued an apology a few days after the interview in the wake of the international backlash. Rather than holding true to his core beliefs, he caved and made a desperate, pathetic apology.
This story has also been an extremely convenient distraction for the United States government. While the sheep wail away on social networks and lesser blogs than the KeyPAP's about whether or not Barilla's comments were anti-gay and an expression of outrageous bigotry, the politicians in the U.S. federal government breathe a collective sigh of relief as less attention is being paid to the shutdown. They love it when we bicker over inconsequential shit like Barilla's comments. Real issues such as your premium potentially quadrupling under the new health care law, a declining stock market, and the broken world economy are swept under the rug while they literally collect their paychecks without working.
Do not stand for focus groups who try to stand on moral high ground while simultaneously attempting to destroy an innocent man because his worldview does not conform to their agenda. As a KeyPAP man, I sincerely value the freedom Americans should have to form their own opinions based on how they see the world. May shame be brought all oppressors.
A few weeks ago, all of the voting and non-voting members of the KeyPAP traveled to State College, Pennsylvania for Smits' bachelor party. It was here that they spent their most critically formative years between the ages of 18 and 22. It was here that the individuals of the KeyPAP initially forged their relationships. And so it was here that they all gathered for one more night of belligerence, debauchery, and Canyon pizza. So much masculinity was witnessed that day: weightlifting, chopping wood, riding quads, archery, mass consumption of Busch Light, and a visit to the End Zone - Central Pennsylvania's premier strip club. But all of those activities have taken a backburner to the one event which overwhelmingly captivated the KeyPAP clan. In the following story, Dr. Funk describes the unexpected highlight of the night . . .
It was August 24th, 2013 and I was making my first re-entry to Penn State night life in four years along with four other members of the KeyPAP. Up to this point in the night our entertainment had been mostly based on several well placed Busch Lights. It was still very early, but if I was being honest with myself I would have to admit I was starting to feel like I was fighting an uphill battle against disappointment. Only 4 years removed from my final year at Penn State I felt that we would again blend seamlessly with the crowd, but, alas, I was mistaken. I could chalk it up to the fact that we were slightly overdressed for the occasion boasting several full suits and one tuxedo, but I feel the disconnect was based on more than aesthetics alone. I think that when we reminisce on our past we tend to look back on a romanticized version of reality that often gives us a preference for our generation over another. Even with this in mind I couldn’t help but think I walked back into a cheapened version of the world I once was a part of.
We walked into Bar Bleu at around 7:00 that night. There were many people there but no one looked as if they were having a genuinely good time. It seemed as if the overabundant energy that lies native in the heart of the youthful had been suffocated by the instant gratification of Tinder and denim hotpants. I still had some hope left in me, a dreamer as I tend to be, that if we weren’t going to get any substance out of this experience we would surely dive head first into a raucous crowd in the downstairs dance area.
Wrong yet again.
We walked downstairs into a sea of people binge drinking to house music with their faces buried into their phones. There came a moment in the night when one member of our group ordered a water and nearly fell asleep at the table (this, as it turns out, is a story for another day).
I can’t say that I was excited when I saw a band setting up on stage. I had my dancing shoes on and I couldn’t bear the thought of having my eardrums blown out by 15 shit Nickleback covers in a row. But I gave them a chance. What followed is the reason I’m typing this at my computer right now.
The band known as Big Feast started out slow, they didn’t come out with guns blazing, they eased the crowd into it like only real artists can. A zephyr of blues and funk delicately mingled with rock and roll floated through the musty bar air and sidled its way into my cochleae with a smoothness my ears had never before experienced. I found my spirit roused from the sleep it was put into by the impersonal setting we were in. No more was I concerned with my surroundings as I was hypnotized by the sounds filling the air. My dancing shoes ached to satisfy the purpose for which they were put on as they tapped unconsciously to the music. I was compelled by the funk, summoned by the satiny smooth vocals to go out to the dance floor alone. The truest form of dancing is the kind where the music controls the dancer and bends him or her to the will of the song. I gave in, I the marionette controlled on high by the puppeteers named Big Feast.
And what a dance it was. The drummer controlled my feet, coaxing out wild movements and footwork never brandished in public before. The bass player while working in solitude behind the scenes produced rhythms that coursed through my veins in a whirlwind of funk-filled hip gyrations. I would not describe the guitar solos as “face melting” since I would consider this an insult. The guitar playing was not the all too familiar cacophony produced by mindlessly racing up and down a pre-determined scale, but a symphony of perfectly placed notes that played on the emotions with a delicate touch that squired the spirit of the listener through a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows. The vocals floated on top light and airy as a cloud upon Happy Valley, and were just as capable of delivering thunderous devastation when the moment was right.
I give you this analysis as my feeble attempt to describe the music of that night, but to describe the music in its separate components is an abortion. It is the same as describing the way a cake tastes by describing the eggs, milk, and sugar separately. When the cake is made its ingredients no longer exist, only the final product. This indescribable sound infected me with a dancing disease and once I set it free the disease went airborne. The discouraged group of young, suppressed students got up and savaged the dance floor! They spilled their drinks, relinquished self-consciousness, and danced for no ulterior motive other than to dance. The euphoria that filled the room bordered on a collective manic episode.
That night Big Feast changed the course of our evening and etched an unforgettable memory in our minds. For that the KeyPAP would like to honor them with the incredibly distinguished honor of being the 2013 KeyPAP Band of the Year, the first artist to receive this coveted award. It is not necessarily an annual award; it will only be presented in years where a band strikes us worthy enough to carry our stamp of approval. Congratulations to Big Feast.
Beebles, Funk, and Smits continued their strong play through the front nine. Beebles managed to overtake Funk on the leaderboard at one point, only to watch Funk snatch it back at the turn. Smits stayed within 2 strokes of the leader.
The battle between the three athletes in contention raged on as the PTC moved to the back nine. Smits got his first taste of the lead at the 12th hole, but Beebles and Funk stayed right on his tail. As if the drama of the PTC wasn't prevalent enough already, Beebles, Funk, and Smits found themselves in a three-way tie for the lead heading into the 15th hole. The 15th was a short 132 yard par-3, an easy pitch for men the likes of the KeyPAP clan. But a pond that sat in front of the green loomed heavily in the minds of the athletes. Funk took a particularly long time eying up his target across the pond. He changed his mind several times about which club to use and kept speaking of the water bazard as the critical factor in his decision. The crowd could sense that he was rattled.
Funk's swing was a graceful as ever, but immediately a look of panic came over his face after he made contact with the ball. Over and over he repeated the phrase, "O no!" escalating from a whisper to a bellicose scream, but words don't have the power to change a golf ball's trajectory mid-flight. The crowd watched in terror as the ball plunged into the pond five yards from the far edge of the shore. Several frogs scattered away from the area as Funk looked on at the ripples in the pond emanating further and further from the scene of the crime. With only four holes remaining and Beebles and Smits not willing to give an inch, Funk became the PTC's second victim to fall out of contention. Fez tried to comfort his fellow martyr, but Funk didn't even have the capacity to hear words at this low point.
Beebles and Smits remained tied heading over the 16th hole. Only three holes remained in regulation. Would the first annual Penn Tower Classic require a playoff to determine an outright champion? Would one of them hole an impossible iron shot and take the lead with and eagle? Or would yet another man crack under the pressure, leaving the last man standing as champion?
The 16th was short downhill par-4 with the Jackie Robinson Parkway running along the right side. The first 20 yards in front of the teebox was crowded by trees, but then opened up to an ultra-wide fairway down below. Beebles stepped to the tee first and roped a straight shot down the hill. Smits stepped up to the tee next feeling like Beebles' drive left a lot of distance on the table. His aim was to outdrive Beebles and lay up for an easy chip onto the green for his second shot. Smits approached his ball, set up straight at the flag and swung.
VVVOOOOOOMMMM
The ball leapt off the clubface and immediately curled to the right and out onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. He pulled out a second ball from his pocket and proceeded to hit another drive without take a practice swing.
VVVOOOOOOMMMM
Smits' second drive attempt followed the exact same path as the first. Once again he set up for a drive and once again the ball tore off onto the highway. As a fitting sumbol of the PTC's third and final bombout, the last drive landed with a crash onto an unsuspecting citizen's windshield sending a spider web of cracks across the entire window pane. The startled driver weaved the back and forth on the highway in the midst of an involuntary panic attack. Luckily, he was able to regain control of his car in time to avoid a fatal collision.
A few spectators began to weep. More drama had unfolded in front of their eyes in a matter of four hours than entire year's worth of Lifetime original television programming. But this wasn't fiction; it was all too real. How much can the human soul bear to see before it becomes overwhelmed? For some, Smits' triumvirate of hooked shots onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway was the final straw.
And so Beebles took a commanding lead without having to even swing his club. All he had to do now was hold it together for three more holes and the PTC Championship would be his. Funk made a valiant comeback with a birdie on 17, but Beebles' steady play kept him in the lead.
Beebles' triumphant victory march on 18 will remain etched in the minds of all who witnessed the 2013 PTC. The three who had knocked themselves out of contention struck up a conversation now that they were alleviated from the PTC pressure, but Beebles did not partake. He remained quiet, calm, and focused as he hit his first putt to within 8 feet of the hole. As he waited for the others to putt, he stared daggers into the cup, simulating in his mind the final stroke which would secure his championship victory. Slightly downhill with a break from left to right, he needed to aim 3 inches left of the cup. Just as he had done all day, Beebles walked up to his ball and made his vision a reality and ended the 2013 Penn Tower Classic.
When the ball sank in the hole he simply stood on the green and took in the atmosphere. The crowd roared their emphatic approval and began to chant his name. With supreme class he doffed his cap to the crowd and embraced his KeyPAP competitors with a firm handshake. Physically beaten down and emotional scarred from watching Fez, Funk, and Smits eliminate themselves from contention, he had no energy left to celebrate.
The physical and mental strength, endurance, and intensity put on display by all four competitors was nothing short of remarkable given the magnitude of the PTC combined with the events which unfolded the night before. What these men did with no gas in the tank, no wood on the fire, no coal in the chamber will live on for time immemorial. The 2013 Penn Tower Classic perfectly defined both KeyPAP and America.
Four alarms simultaneously shrieked as the clock tolled 7:30am. Drunk, delirious, and cotton-mouthed, Beebles, Fez, Funk, and Smits arose from the floor with the swiftness of a zombie. Try as they might, there was no more delaying the inevitable - the Penn Tower Classic was scheduled to commence in less than an hour.
Fez and Funk collected themselves in time to dash across the street for a quick breakfast sandwich. Smits and Beebles pillaged what was left of the chocolate chip cookies and pop tarts. Everyone drank a cup of coffee hoping for the caffeine to jolt them awake, but the effects were negligible. It is one thing for the body to repair itself after a night of binge drinking, but when combined with the mental stress caused by a looming, grueling athletic competition, no morning remedy will succeed.
Food and coffee consumed, the KeyPAP clan hastily dressed themselves and walked outside toward Fez's car. The sun shone bright that morning, blitzing their dulled senses with tenacity of an NFL linebacker. Smits put his forearm in front of his baggy eyes to allow them time to adjust to the sudden stimulus.
They hoisted their golf bags into the trunk and off they drove down Queens Boulevard toward Forest Park Golf Course. No words were spoken on the ride.
As Fez pulled his Lexus into the parking lot, the KeyPAP clan was greeted by tumultuous applause. A large crowd was expected, but nothing near this magnitude. Cars filled every available parking space, many having to park on the shoulder of the surrounding local roads. One space remained at the front, however, reserved for the Penn Tower Classic competitors.
They climbed out of the car, put on their golf shoes and walked briskly to the first tee. The grounds crew had worked tirelessly all morning to bring the playing conditions up to a level suitable for the KeyPAP Tour's flagship event. Their work was superb - the tee box on the 1st hole was cut tightly with not a single divot in sight. A few droplets of dew clung to the tips of perfectly trimmed blades of grass.
Beebles was the first to tee off. He slowly made his way to the first tee, set his ball then stepped back a few paces for three deliberate practice swings. Two words repeated themselves incessantly in Beebles' mind: solid contact. Twenty years of experience had ingrained the correct pattern of movements into his musculoskeletal system in preparation for this moment. Now all he had to do was execute. Repeating this phrase was the cue which allowed Beebles to get his brain out of the way and let his body do the work.
Beebles took one deep breath and walked up to the left of his ball with the stealth of a lion closing in on an unsuspecting gazelle. An eerie silence engulfed Forest Park as the crowd came to a hush for the first shot of the day. Only the distant whirring of traffic and the songs of birds could be heard. In this perfect moment, Beebles drew his driver back and swung forth on his ball with the might of Thor, Norse God of Thunder. The ball took off over the tree shadows and carried over the fairway. Its path stayed true and after a few seconds the ball landed and rolled onward, coming to a stop 300 yards from the tee in the middle of the fairway.
The crowd let out a deafening roar as Beebles reached down to retrieve his broken tee. They had come expecting to see elite talent on display and Beebles had satisfied their appetite. Little did they know that the next four hours would be a whirlwind of emotional toil and physical atrophy.
In similar fashion Funk, Fez, and Smits teed off. The four men traversed the first hole with grace and class while the crowd marveled at their abilities. When all four balls took their turn rattling into the bottom of the cup, Funk had taken the early lead.
For the next three holes the PTC competitors snaked their way through the crowd as they hit their shots. All four competitors came out at the top of their game physically, jockeying for position while Funk clung to his narrow advantage.
The first dramatic even of the tournament occurred at the 5th hole. After sinking a beautiful putt on the par-4 4th, Fez was set to tee off first at the 5th hole, a dangerous dog-leg right with a dense collection of trees encroaching on the right side of a narrow fairway. Fez set himself to tee off just as he'd done thousands of times before. But as he reached the peak of his backswing, a squirrel scurried across the teebox not ten feet in front of his ball. The crowd cried out in collective shock as Fez, concentration lost only for a split-second in time, grazed the ball with the bottom of his driver. The ball was pounded straight into the ground and only managed to bounce forward far enough to clear the ladies' tees.
Fez stood dumbfounded on the teebox searching for answers that could explain what had just occurred. He'd spent hundreds of hours on the driving range with mis-hit golf balls crossing his path and loud ball retriever vehicles driving in front of his line, among a plethora of other distractions. How could this squirrel cause him to lose control when he needed it most?
The three other competitors teed off with their balls in much better position. Shaken, Fez walked up to his ball for his second shot. The ball had landed deep in the thick, lush rough and he would need an absolutely perfect shot to get back onto the fairway. But he could not evoke from his broken down body the necessary precision to accomplish this daunting task. Instead the ball popped up and landed in the bunker at the edge of the woods 50 yards away.
Fez raised his face to the heavens and let out a howl reminiscent of a lone, wounded wolf trapped deep in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. "Not again!" he exclaimed.
Confidence fully abdicated, Fez walked to the bunker for his third shot which he could only push a few yards further into the sand. Smits looked away, vowing not to dwell on Fez's struggles while he took his second shot from the fairway. All of the athletes were affected by this meltdown. It reminded them what was possible if they failed to put every ounce of testicular fortitude into their efforts that day. When the strokes had been tallied Fez was charged with a dreadful 11.
In the days that followed, Fez's performance on the 5th hole was succinctly coined "The Collapse." He went on to tally a second consecutive 11 on the 6th hole, all but eliminating him from the tournament from that point forward.
Fez's black Lexus hurdled along I-80 as New York City's majestic skyline slowly came into focus through the front windshield. Beebles was laying back in the passenger seat for a nap and Funk was reading a book in the back. The sun slowly settled into the western horizon, only half of it visible in the rearview mirror. Night time was fast approaching. Traffic slowed as the three men approached the George Washington Bridge.
Bebbles decided to sit up as he realized bumper-to-bumper traffic was not conducive to sleep. Fez, seeing that Beebles had risen from his slumber, cranked up the volume on the car stereo.
Bandz a make her dance Bandz a make her dance These chicks clappin' And they ain't using hands
Fez was rapping along with Juicy J and it wasn't long before Beebles and Funk joined in on the fun. The car buzzed with energy.
2 Chainz, four bracelets Let me see that ass clap, standing ovation If yo girl don't swallow kids, man that ho basic
As the three got louder and started moving to the music, the car started to shake back and forth on the bridge, drawing inquisitive looks from adjacent travelers. But Fez, Beebles, and Funk were in a world of their own and didn't have a care in the world as to what anyone else thought of their antics. They were a mere 16 hours away from the start of the most challenging athletic endeavor they had ever faced: the 2013 Penn Tower Classic.
As Fez, Beebles, and Funk made their way across the GWB, Smits was finishing up work in his office several blocks south of them on 34th Street. The day had been a long and grueling one for the structural engineer. He had been summoned to the field in the morning to help with construction inspection at the World Trade Center site, then returned to the office in the afternoon where he was assigned the task of completing urgent calculations for his project manager. Stressed, hungry, and eager for the night's coming festivities he stormed out the front door and weaved his way through the pedestrian traffic, rejecting two requests for spare change on the way down to the subway station. When the Queens-bound E train finally arrived he sat down in the air conditioned car, laid his head back against the window and closed his eyes. Flashes of narrow fairways and tightly cut greens were interspersed with images of women dancing in clothes which showed off ample cleavage.
As the subway slowed to a stop at the 67th Avenue station, Smits darted out the door and up the stairs to his apartment. He quickly got undressed, showered, and got ready for the arrival of the three other KeyPAP co-founders and co-presidents. Smits was elected to serve as host for the first PTC. The reputation of KeyPAP put a lot of pressure on him to provide stellar hosting services. He was determined to live up to these lofty expectations.
At 7:00pm Fez, Beebles, and Funk arrived, 2 Chainz still blasting through the car stereo as they parallel parked along 67th Road. Smits walked out on the street to greet everyone.
Smits "Gentlemen, good to see you again. How long did it take you guys to get here?"
Fez "Only like an hour and 69 minutes."
They brought their luggage up to apartment 6N, finally getting a chance to kick back and relax. Each member of this foursome bad been a top notch and well respected member of the academic community at The Pennsylvania State University four years prior. Due to each of their separate vigorous pursuits of a graduate education they had seldom found the time or money required to have a post-graduate rendezvous. But now that Beebles, Funk, and Smits had professional degrees to their names, life had slowed down enough for this raucous crew to be reunited.
They wasted no time breaking into Smits' liquor cabinet. They threw back several shots of Absolut Pears, the official alcoholic beverage of KeyPAP, before making their way to the first bar of the night on Austin Street. They ordered a round of cocktails and beer after being seated by the petite Asian waitress. Fez almost immediately acquired a target of the opposite sex a few feet away. He quickly threw back the last of his drink and made his way to the bar for the first approach of the night.
Fez "Did you come here tonight to meet your dream man?"
Girl "[smiling] Maybe. Let me know if you see him."
Fez "Let me help you out. He's about 5'-7" Italian and used to be a cheerleader in college."
Girl "Wait, you were a cheerleader in college? I'm sorry, but that's a deal breaker for me."
She turned away and walked back to her group of friends before Fez even had a chance to explain. He had shed blood, sweat and tears, suffered broken bones and even a mild concussion for that gig, and this broad wasn't even going to give him the light of day. Such is the state of the present day American dating scene.
The drink orders started to come more rapidly after the dejected Fez returned to the table. The foursome engrossed themselves in vigorous discussions. Topics included alternate universes, popular music, vertical bacon smiles, new sexual positions, and athletics. Before they knew it the clock was tolling 11:00pm.
Originally, the KeyPAP co-founders and co-presidents had planned to spend the night at local bars in Queens for a few drinks and light conversation in order to rest for the PTC the next morning. But the Manhattan nightlife became too much of a temptation to supress. Once they got within a short subway ride from the city, they were drawn into the bright lights like an asteroid which wanders into Earth's gravitational pull.
The men took the R train into Manhattan, arriving just before midnight. They walked out onto the 34th Street sidewalk, gazing up at the skyscrapers which loomed over mid-town.
Beebles "The night is still young; let's drink!"
Smits "Where do you guys want to go? I only know a few places."
Funk "My friend is working at Libation tonight. Let me see if he can get us in."
Funk fired off a text to his contact as the men strolled down Broadway, taking in the sights: buildings squeezed one right next to another, hipsters propped up against dingy buildings taking smoke breaks, thin women in tight clubwear. They were filled with excitement.
A minute later Funk's text message was answered.
Funk "He said we're in. Let's go there now."
Twenty minutes later, despite not meeting the club's dress code, the co-founders and co-presidents of KeyPAP were granted access to the front doors of Libation. Through a missing link in the chain of communication, the bouncer had not been warned of their arrival by Funk's inside contact. But the men gave off such a strong aura of professionalism and confidence that he couldn't justify turning them away - shorts or not.
Once inside they were whisked upstairs to the VIP floor which overlooked the masses of full-paying customers. The dance floor below reeked of sexual awkwardness and desperation. They were grateful to have their own bar service upstairs, as well as the power to grant select females access to this coveted area of the club.
As the club began to fill up, Fez, eager to rebound from his first approach of the night, was the first to take advantage of this privilege. While Smits, Beebles, and Funk were reminiscing about old times, Fez quietly tip-toed down the stairs and made his way over to a pair of blondes at the far end of the floor. He pulled out his iPhone which had a picture of his young nephew on the lock screen.
Fez "Hey, can I ask you a question? Is it creepy for me to have this picture on my phone?"
Blonde 1 "That all depends. Do you know that kid?"
Fez "Yes, I know him. He's my nephew."
Blonde 1 "I think that's okay then."
Blonde 2 smiled and nodded in agreement. Since his departure from the VIP floor was sudden and unannounced, Smits, Beebles, and Funk took a minute to realize where Fez had gone and what he was out to do. Once they spotted him and his prey on the first floor they hastily moved over to the edge of the balcony to see if Fez could make this approach a success.
After observing his fellow clansman for a few minutes, Beebles decided it was time for him to take action. His loins ached for a dish of hot china, and much to his delight he was able to acquire a target in the form of a petite Korean broad. Off he went to the first floor to try to meet the needs which his boner placed on him. The two elder clansmen remained on the VIP floor sipping their cocktails while watching their brethren battle it out below. Talk was light between the two men; each had something weighing heavily on the mind, but didn't dare speak of it. KeyPAP is a respectful organization and one of the pillars of their relationships was the proper respect for competition. Funk and Smits would be slugging it out on the greens in just a few hours. There was nothing to be gained by either man in a discussion of the impending Penn Tower Classic.
The hours went by at a snail's pace compared to the number of drinks consumed. Smits and Funk made a steady stream of cocktail orders while discussing married life while Beebles and Fez tried to close on their prey by inviting them upstairs for VIP club service and titillating conversation. At 3:00am, an hour before closing time, both Fez and Beebles made their way back to Smits' and Funk's table exhausted from their efforts, but with nothing to show. In the game of slaying pussy the peaks and valleys are extreme with virtually no middle ground. On the eve of the 2013 Penn Tower Classic it was just not meant to be. Maybe the PTC weighed too heavily on their subconscious minds, maybe the women were legitimately not attract to the them. At this point only pure, cumbersome conjecture can be offered.
Smits hailed a cab in the street just outside Libation's front doors. Beebles slurred out one more "The night is still young!" chant, but it was clear his heart wasn't truly in it. At almost 4:00am the men arrived back at Smits' apartment and literally collapsed onto the floor a mere four and a half hours out from tee-off.
