Puff, Putt, Perfection

Hi! I'm Will. Crazy times we are living in, huh? Or, should I say "I," seeing as how you aren't really here, are you? Crazy times I am living in. Anyway, I know what you must be thinking -

"Oh no, the world has gone to shit! Poor Will. How did this all happen?!"

Well, the long and short of it is, my world went crazy in all the ways you might expect. The two parties that comprised my government argued themselves into a permanent shutdown/stalemate. The right-leaning children clad in ill-fitting suits argued against the left-leaning children clad in ill-fitting suits, and so the cycle continued. Meanwhile, teenagers worldwide (perhaps encouraged by the lack of government presence) set their cities on fire when their favorite viral video app was abruptly taken away. Oh, and all of this was against the backdrop of a global pandemic that saw people going blind by looking at cellphone towers and ingesting too much common sense (or was it bleach?).

Now I know, I know, how does all of that equal a mass extinction, and, furthermore, how am I, William Arthur Parsons, the only person left in the world? Well, let it suffice to say that, amid all the global chaos, buttons were pushed, rockets were launched, cities were razed, and I discovered that the years of bong resin that had built up in my lungs worked wonders to shield me from the nuclear fallout. Score one for the weed guy! Whoo!

Anyhow, enough of the boring stuff. Let me tell you about what life has been like since everyone else bit the dust (or um, became dust, as it were).

Once I was confident that I was the last remaining person on Earth, I happily moved into the biggest house in town. The previous occupant was some guy who owned a book company or something. The local legend was that this guy was convinced he could take over the world, and so many people believed him that they gave him enough money to become filthy rich. To put his wealth into perspective - the apocalypse (and the subsequent annexing of what I have come to call "Castle W.A.P.") happened 301 days ago, and there are still sections of his house I haven't explored.

Mornings at the W.A.P. are pretty sweet. I wake up in my luxurious, king-sized bed, spark up a fat one, and turn on "Planet Earth," you know, for solidarity purposes. Once I am sufficiently baked, I get out of bed, dawn one of my many silk kimonos (side note - how many silk kimonos are too many silk kimonos? Asking for a friend), and head downstairs for breakfast. I should mention that when I say "head downstairs," what I really mean is "take the elevator," because apparently, "Captain Library" wasn't a fan of stairs. I mean, I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to walk down 5 flights of stairs every morning either!

Breakfast consists of only the finest of foods. As the last poor sap left in this place, I happily avail myself to all of the rich people's foods left behind at all of the rich people's stores. Twenty-dollar green grapes? Check. Croissants buttered with the finest of overpriced butter? Don't mind if I do. Two eggs birthed from a chicken who had a better life than most of the inner-city kids I knew? Absofuckinglutely! Oh, but the crème de la crème, the pièce de résistance - that, my non-existent companion, that comes in the form of a freshly ground nug of OG Kush, which I procure from only the finest of dispensaries.

By now, you may be thinking -

"Hey, this Will guy is kind of a scumbag. He seems to be relishing in the fact that he is the only person left alive. He is exploiting his circumstances and is making light of the deceased."

And you know what? You are right. I am a scumbag. However, seeing as how (as I so kindly noted for you) I am the last person left alive, you are stuck with me. That makes me your scumbag. Shall we continue?

After breakfast, I ride the elevator back upstairs and get ready for the events of the day. If its Monday, I get blasted and go back to sleep because, honestly? Fuck Mondays. Even before the apocalypse, Mondays were the most hated day of the week, and I, for one, have no intention of breathing new goddamn life into, or being the poster boy for, Mondays. Fuck that.

If it is Tuesday, I get dressed in the finest of sweatpants and make my way into one of "Sir Reads A lot's" many sports cars. I feel that it is crucial to note that I have wrecked at least five Lambo's in my attempts to learn how to "Castle W.A.P. drift," and have since taken to driving a little more carefully.

Wednesdays and Thursdays are pretty much the same: adopt a pinstripe suit, slick my hair back, channel my inner Pacino, and ball out at the local dispensary. It is a pretty luxurious experience, truth be told. I burst in with call the confidence of Oprah, and it's all,

"You get some bud! You get some bud! We all get some bud!"

And then, I leave as gracefully as I arrived, fresh flower and hash spilling out from my over-stuffed bag.

Fridays and Saturdays are more of the same, nothing to write home about. But Sundays! Now, Sundays are where the fun really begins.

You see, before the apocalypse, I was a regular guy, a guy probably not unlike yourself. I had a semblance of a job, a beleaguered sense of responsibility, and an unbridled passion for the sacred art of mini-golf. Yup, you read that correctly. I love mini-golf: the sport where full-grown adults use child-sized putters to knock brightly-colored balls into precariously placed holes which are often guarded by traps, circus animals, clowns, or infinitely infuriating windmills.

After the annexing of Castle W.A.P., I knew that the only other thing I wanted to do with my time left on this decaying planet was to spend my days mastering the delicate ballet that is "the putt." However, my goal is not just some lame vanity project. It is not some whimsical, highfalutin desire, born out of boredom, and a lack of practical skills. No, my dear silent observer, this passion for the putt was ignited within me during my childhood years.

I remember it like it was yesterday. On the eve of my fifth birthday, my parents committed the single greatest act of love ever performed by a human being. Shoving my sugar-addled body into my cheerio-encrusted booster seat in the family van, my parents cranked up the "Kid's Bop," and sped us off down the road. I will never forget the wave of excitement that washed over me and the immense sense of belonging I experienced when my eyes finally came to alight on the sign of the establishment we had pulled up to; "What, What, in the Putt." In what I can only describe as an instantaneous rush of supreme bliss, I knew I was home.

Now, my specter of an inner monologue, I can understand how, to you, mastering mini-gulf during the aftermath of the apocalypse may seem... deluded, but let me assure you - you are wrong.

I have traveled near and far (mostly near, if we are honest) to hone my skills. Every obstacle I overcome emboldens me. Every creepy clown I work around further cements in my mind that I am indeed answering my one true calling. Every perfect putt (and oh, how perfect they are) brings me one blissful swing of the club closer to nirvana.

Of the four courses in my town, I have a perfect score at three of them. The final course, the course whose domination will serve as my crowning achievement, is none other than "What, What, in the Putt." Ever since my five-year-old self first laid eyes on that sprawling artificial turf and those whimsically colored structures, I knew it was my destiny to conquer the 18 bliss-filled holes. The thought of standing at the end of the 18th green knowing that I, William Arthur Parsons — armed with nothing but a perfectly rolled joint, an electric-blue putter, and a highlighter-yellow ball — had achieved true greatness, is what compels me to get out of bed each and every goddamn morning.

Well, friend, there you have it. It has been a gas getting to shoot the shit, gib the gab, and share this unique look into my daily comings and goings. Now though, if it is all the same to you, I am going to spark up a good ol' boy, dispel the illusion that is you, and get ready to go fulfill my destiny of becoming the greatest mini-golfer in the world. It has been real, and I genuinely thank you for keeping me company at Castle W.A.P. Till next time - Will out!