Welcome to Astrea’s personal Hell: Master’s Week in Disgusta, GA.
It started weeks ago, but really the official start of this nightmare was today. Nine days of pure Hell where no local can do anything but stay home. Yesterday, I filled up my gas tank to avoid having to do so during the week. Forget going out to eat, even McDonald’s is packed. Gotta go to work? Good luck with that.
Feb 7th, the bus stop signs appeared…
Feb 17th, the Golden Ticket Bus arrived…
Feb 21st, the traffic signs appeared…
Feb 25th, the golf cars were strategically placed around town.
Feb 27th, the parking lots of the Castle of Doom bloomed with the cars of the Minions to the Evil Overlords. They had a lot of work to do because the azaelia’s bloomed early and they had to pick each and every fucking faded bloom OFF those bushes because we just can’t have that shit. Those grounds have to be perfect. They’ll be on tv all freaking WEEK, after all.
Sucks to be you, bitches.
And so that was how it began.
It’s been well, well over a month, and yet… The Horsemen, holding the Signs of the Apocalypse… still have not come.
Let’s go find them, shall we?
Ok, I leave my house and this has nothing to do with nothing, but…
Look to the right… WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?
Geez. Though, I do have an alternate route and no, I will not share. You, neighbors, are on your fucking own.
Ok…. back to the hunt.
Here there be tourists. Here… there will be Horsemen…
There seems to be some confusion among my friends as to what qualifies as a “sign”.
Those little pre-made signs don’t count. I call “cheater” on these people’s asses. Amateurs.
I have to do something! The light’s changing, I have to turn! THERE HE IS!! He’s come out from behind the SUV!
Camera in hand and randomly shooting out the window…
And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a Horseman of the Apocalypse.
They are a special breed, only appearing in this town during Master’s week because, as each and every fucking handwritten – must be handwritten! – sign says,
“I NEED TICKETS”.
Here’s my personal sign that goes up in the back window of my van today:
The thing about the signs that chaps my ass the most is this: There’s a difference in “tickets” and “badges”. Tickets are for the “practice rounds” on Monday and Tuesday. They are also for Wednesday, which is the “Par 3″. “Badges” are what you have to have for Thursday, Friday, Saturday and – the biggest day – Sunday.
Get your fucking words right.
You may ask, “Why, dear Astrea, do you know so much about the Masters when you hate it so very much?”
Know your enemy, grasshopper.
Horseman located, we must now do the inadvisable and let’s just say it, flat stupid thing, of actually going by the course to get home.
~insert theme from Psycho here~
Turn the corner onto Berckmans…
Do you see how far back that goes? That *USED* to be an entire neighborhood. The course bought it out for MILES and tore every house down. All but ONE that sits right out in the middle in the distance. Shit. How am I gonna get a shot of that house? Can I pull over?
The castle guards are out in force. Hide the camera!! Yes, he did stop every single car – including mine – that went past that gate. No, seriously. Because they don’t want people that don’t LIVE down this road using this road much right now, and they certainly don’t want you taking pictures inside the gates.
*glance behind me at the cop*
Like I give a shit, but *neener-neener*
Why is the Press Lot important to me? Because I hate them worse than the tourists. I went to the little pub by my house once during this hellish week – wtf was I thinking? – and a USA Today reporter asked me how I felt about Masters Week. On camera.
“I think the tourists are rude sacks of shit that ruin my town for an entire goddamned week and I wish they’d all go the fuck home.”
Complete with cheesy smile.
The camera guy snerked and turned his light off. Reporter dude stood there gaping at me until his camerman grabbed his arm.
That was the same night some dude hits on me and tells me he’s Ben Affleck’s brother.
Eyes narrowed at him. “Are you actually Ben Affleck?”
“No, like I said, I’m his brother.” All puffed up and proud.
“Come back when you’re Ben Affleck.”
I went ahead and passed my house so I could go here. Not a whole lot of planes yet, but I assure you that by Friday, it will be PACKED.
That’s a private airport about a half a mile from my house that a lot of the high-dollar jets use.
If I’m ever asked for directions by tourists, this is where I send them, no matter where they said they wanted to go.
Bitch much? Abso-fucking-LUTELY!
When people ask me where I live, I say I live here, because I do. Summerville, not Augusta, even though Augusta swallowed up Summerville many, many moons ago.
I wish I’d won the lottery last night. I swear, I’d stay in town just one more year so I could LEAVE town for these entire nine days. Just so I could say I did it.
*bang head on table*
So, just remember when or if you see all the broadcasts and pictures on tv, that while it looks gorgeous – because the course is beautiful – people like me are in pure Hell.
Gods, I hate this week. I have bail money stashed, just in case.