On a sweltering night in Mesquite, Texas, about a month ago, I took my girlfriend putt-putt golfing at Celebration Station. It wasn't my idea. Her uncle apparently works at this place... poor bugger. He must have been fired from cleaning hamster cages at the pet motel.
I'm a swimmer, and I've never so much as putted a golf ball. Luckily no skill is required, as you see all sorts of humongous fat chicks and weird dudes waddling around hitting little colored balls toward the hole. The nerd community is also well represented -- it looked like a Texas Instruments job fair for community college dropouts. This sport requires less physical dexterity than bowling. And that's saying a lot.
Anyway, we're about halfway through this excruciatingly mundane date when all hell breaks loose at the putt-putt palace. The group ahead of us consisted of four huge middle-aged females, all talking on cell phones and all drinking bottled water. Needless to say, they backed the place up because they were so slow. I found myself wishing that a Hostess Twinkie truck would pull into the parking lot so that they could stampede over there and let us through.
Just then without any warning, one of the least fat of them squatted and started crapping her oversized white pants. She didn't even try to pull them down.
My girlfriend was shocked. "It looks like she's losing control," she said.
I was too mesmerized to answer. Finally the boring night had turned into something interesting. The woman rolled over onto her stomach like Flipper and started moaning. One of the other plus-sized models asked her if she wanted an ambulance.
"I'll be all right."
I was picturing another There's Something About Mary episode where somebody is carted off in a meat wagon and has to join the witness protection program the next day.
No such luck.
One of the other plus models told my date that "she just had a baby."
The excitement began to make the rounds as small groups of people gathered around us, wanting see what was going on. Eventually the woman's friends helped her waddle toward the parking lot -- her pants, as she walked away, looked like she'd been mud wrestling a filthy kangaroo hyped up on crank -- and we were able to finish our round.
I know you're asking two questions at this point. First of all: why would I, as a grown college man, agree to go miniature golfing? And two: why would a fat woman with irritable bowels be at a cheesy pseudo-golf facility at nine-thirty on a Friday night after downloading a baby?
I won't rest until I get some answers.