A tasty meal or a dinosaur attack: you choose how the 19th hole ends

Photo note: the photos for this epic adventure were taken by photo editor Ashley McKee.
Special thanks also go out to Hoku Jordan, Ian Graham, Bill Oram and the Peter Bulger.

Kaimin note: Despite scoring a season-high 14 runs and mounting an epic fifth-inning rally, the Montana Kaimin softball team dropped to 1-3 on the 2007 season, losing by a solitary run on Tuesday. The Kaimin was crippled by a late-inning error by rookie third baseman Bill Oram, who was immediately optioned down to Missoula Sentinel, the minor league affiliate of the Kaimin softball franchise, after the game.
Idol Note: Although I am still a permanent fixture on the Melinda Doolittle bandwagon, I highly doubt there is any way that Jordin Sparks doesn’t become the next American Idol.
Hollywood Note: Seriously, who is the jerk who keeps giving Nicolas Cage work?

After 49 columns, if you are still reading this, the 50th and final 19th hole, you are either a fan or you are still looking for some ammo for that final “Danny Davis sucks” letter to the editor. 
So to cap this two-year date that we’ve been on (do I get my good- night kiss yet?), why don’t you choose how this column goes? Yes, folks it’s a “Choose Your Own Adventure,” so grab your 5-year-old nephew and have some fun. I’m out.

A.
The name is Davis. Kellan Michel James Tiger Denzel Washington Daniel Davis and I work here in the city, down on Broadway Avenue. Some people refer to me as a detective; I like to refer to myself as a hero with a plethora of superpowers to unleash on unsuspecting criminals. But business has been slow lately because it appears that in a town like Missoula, not a lot of people need to be saved.
So it’s Thursday and here I am, bored out of my mind. I kick back on my newly imported leather futon to catch up on the globs of shoddy garble that passes as “information” on such “Web sites” polluting the World Wide Web as grizzoulian.com.
Then she walked in. A smoking-hot scarlet in the form of a goddess with legs like a gazelle and lips as moist as a fresh spring rain. She introduced herself simply as “Maria” and then said to me …
Go to option “D” or “T”

B.
Unfortunately, today was the same day as the annual Missoula Kia Appreciation Conference, which was being held across the street from the car dealership. Seeing the damage I had done to the window of the Spectra enraged the throng of Kia lovers, and they rushed across the street to confront us.
Upon reaching us, they wrestled away the tire iron and windshield wiper and circled us, chanting, “You hurt the Kia, wouldn’t wanna be ya” over and over again. Once again, in addition to us being generally confused as to what exactly the fuss was about – it was a frickin’ Kia for Pete’s sake – things weren’t looking good for us.
Go to option “Q” or “M”

C.
They were hot on our tails and we had nowhere to go. We ran up Mount Sentinel, around the Kim Williams Trail and out to Wal-Mart twice.
We eventually found our way to a used car dealership and prayed that there we would find some help, or at least a good deal on a Dodge Neon. However, the car lot was vacant and deserted, which was kind of a raw deal for us. Turns out the car dealership employed an unnamed football player who was logging hours that he didn’t work and, unfortunately for us, this was one of those hours.
We were running out of options, and as the SESJ cornered us between a Ford Fusion and a 1999 Mitsubishi Gallant, I busted out the window of a Kia Spectra and, luckily, happened to find …
Go to option “H” or “W”

D.
“Washington, I need your help.”
The broad was in trouble. Turns out she had just returned to campus after a shopping spree at Old Navy when she was accosted by a handful of members of the Students for Economic and Social Justice. Turns out these campus vigilantes had believed, and by “believed” I mean had no real concrete proof, that Maria’s new outfit was made in a sweatshop in Mozambique.
The group had threatened to kill Maria, and now she was on the run and needed my help. No worries, I said, this shouldn’t be too hard of a situation to wiggle out of. Since the SESJ only know how to do one thing, I figured all I needed to teach the girl to do was…
Go to option “G” or “R”

E.
We were alive. I grabbed Maria and held her closely, and as our lips inched closer, she looked at me and said …
Go to option “T” or “Z”

F.
Lottery tickets, one of which turned out to be the winning ticket for the $670 million lottery. Happy and rich, Maria and I got married and settled down in a five-bedroom in snuggy Carmel, Ind. Unfortunately, we eventually grew tired of each other and Maria divorced me and took half my money. The trifling ho.
Unhappy and alone, I spent the rest of my days wasting my money on booze and improving my impressive collection of blenders that I had imported from all regions of the world. I was eventually eaten by a velociraptor (turns out the scientists were wrong on the whole dinosaurs being extinct thing) while going blender shopping in Rhode Island at the age of 26.
The End

G.
Run! The SESJ was a vicious cult and would stop at nothing to get that Old Navy apparel off Maria’s back. I needed to hide her so I grabbed her hand and we stepped out of my office. But lo and behold, the SESJ had followed Maria downtown and was waiting to pounce. They had us backed into a corner with nowhere to go. Our options were limited, but Maria then reached into her purse and pulled out some …
Go to option “N” or “X”

H.
A tire iron and a windshield wiper. I handed the crowbar to Maria and we began viciously swinging our automotive tools. We took the SESJ to town. A few blunt blows to the head later, the members of SESJ were dead and we walked off that car dealership unscratched and unfazed.
Go to option “E” or “B”

I.
The Backstreet Boys were actually founding members of SESJ. The more and more we played such classic ballads as “Larger Than Life” and “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)”, the more the SESJ became fueled and re-energized. The SESJ even began humming the chorus of “As Long As You Love Me” as they inched closer and closer.
With no place to go, we both knew that we were going to die. Since it was the SESJ, there were only two things we could do, one of which was to …
Go to option “R” or “J”
J.
Well, turns out there was only one thing to do and we decided not to take that route. And so, the SESJ beat us to death.
The End.

K.
A Snickers bar, a slushie and a discount hot dog that had been on the warmer for at least three hours. We sat on a park bench and ate our cheap snacks and I leaned in for a kiss, a kiss that was as sweet as watching a Denzel Washington movie on its opening weekend at a multiplex theater. Seriously, “Man on Fire” was pretty damn awesome.
Unfortunately, that lovely kiss would be our last as the hot dog gave Maria food poisoning and she died four days later.
The End

L.
After giving chase for a few blocks, we eventually outran the SESJ. Turns out those Nike sneakers made in sweatshops are a lot faster than homemade sandals.
The End

M.
The Kia appreciators demanded that we make reparations to the damages that we did to the Spectra or they would do some serious damage to our faces, which would suck because I have a million-dollar smile. In an effort to make some peace, we agreed to pool our money together and pay for the damages, and since it was just a Kia, it cost us only $7.95. We gave the protesters $10 and they gave us our change and sent us on our way. With the remaining $2.05, Maria and I rolled over to a local gas station and bought …
Go to option “F” or “K”

N.
Pepper spray. Maria aimed and fired, spraying down the throng of SESJ members that had flocked towards us. The anti-sweatshop advocates dropped like bowling pins and flailed on the ground like a goldfish out of water.
With the SESJ temporarily blinded, we took off running.
Go to option “E” or “P”

O.
Unfortunately, my fire-throwing skills were a bit rusty and I happened to scorch Maria as well. Crap, Batman, the Green Lantern and that underwater pansy Aquaman are going to give me a tough time at the annual superhero convention.
Oh well, you win some, you lose some. And since Maria was burnt to a crisp like Joan of Arc, I took my fire-throwing skills downtown in hopes of reeling in a hook-up that I would undoubtedly regret later. If the jersey-chasers at Stock’s will jump all over a guy who can throw a football, imagine what would happen if they met a man who would light them on fire if they didn’t fall for such classic pick-up lines as “Is there an airport nearby or is that my heart taking off?” and “I’m new in town and can’t find my way around, can I have directions to your house?”
Remember kids: superpowers aren’t just for saving the world; they are an excellent way to get drunk chicks to give you their phone numbers.
The End

P.
Unfortunately, that’s when we realized one disturbing truth about the SESJ. Those bastards weren’t human; in fact, they are just a bunch of robots, engineered to look like college students without anything better to do.
The pepper spray had only temporarily short-circuited their wires and soon they were back on their feet and chasing after us.
Go to option “L” or “C”

Q.
Then I remembered that I had an aforementioned superpower and luckily that superpower was the ability to shoot fire. As the enraged Kia lovers inched closer to me and my beloved, I let loose and engulfed the supporters in flames, singeing them like Dad overcooks hot dogs at a Fourth of July barbecue.
Yea, that’s right, Spider-Man doesn’t have shit on me.
Go to option “E” or “O”

R.
Dance!
Since the SESJ has more recently become known around campus as “that group that voiced their opinions through the art of dance,” I knew that we needed to beat them at their own game.
We needed to serve them. But knowing that the SESJ was 15-1 in dance-offs in the 2006-07 school year, I knew that we were going to need some help because my dance skills consisted solely of the waltz, cha cha slide and the jitterbug.
So we headed up the Rattlesnake to find one P. Kurt Bulger, a renowned dancer in the 1980s who had swore never to dance again after a freak dancing accident left his partner, and true love, dead at a dance-off in Miami.
After initial resistance, Bulger taught us his tricks of the trade and gave us enough moves to dance circles around the SESJ.
What happened next is too grisly and gruesome to put in print, but to this day the locals still talk about the day that the two P. Kurt Bulger protégées murdered the SESJ… on the dance floor.
The End.

S.
Underappreciated R&B girl band Cherish. Seeing our situation, the girls faced the SESJ and let loose a classic 2006 ballad entitled “Do It To It” … “We from the city that make it OK / To make clubbin’ a year-round holiday / So if you feelin’ right, grab the Kryptonite / If this yo’ song tonight, then it’s on tonight.”
Even before Cherish hit the harmonious and ever-so-groovy chorus, we all sat there mesmerized, watching the girls work their magic. Then the leader of SESJ (the locals call him “The One in the Cardboard Box”) turned to me and extended his hand and we made peace right outside of Taco John’s. If there is one lesson to be learned here it’s that the annoyingly catchy lyrics of a mediocre R&B group can bring peace to even the most tense of situations.
Send that memo to Dubya.
The End

T.
“Where is the Mo Club? I am in need of a delicious hamburger.”
I gave her directions to the downtown restaurant and then she left me, heartbroken … and very very hungry.
So I followed her to the Mo Club, not so much because I am a big TLC fan and like to creep but because those burgers are rather tasty.
The End
U.
Bryan Adams. Seeing the Canadian rocker, Maria and I argued as to whether to ask him to sing “Heaven” or “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman?” before settling on “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You.” Upon hearing our request, the SESJ took off running, muttering something about how maybe those overseas workers don’t have it so bad and that listening to a Bryan Adams song is “cruel and unusual punishment.”
Go to option “E” or “Y”

V.
Campus protesters invented the concept of crappy music. So they countered our corny lyrics about wanting it a certain way with a crappy guitar solo about how the Scottish economy was ruining the living conditions in Aruba. We had just been served and were reaching our eventual demise, when out of nowhere stepped …
Go to option “S” or “U”

W.
A road map of Idaho. Amazingly, the only thing less worthless than the state of Idaho happens to be a map of the Gem State, especially when you are being attacked by a bunch of crazed college students who think they are making a difference in the world.
But as the SESJ got closer and closer, they realized they had a problem. While their pants were made without exploited labor (I think the correct recipe for hippie pants is love, rainbows and yarn), they were also made without pockets. Turns out those little exploited fingers from those Third World countries are good for something.
Without pockets, the SESJ had no place to carry their weapons, which were also made from love, rainbows and yarn. So without the ability to kill us, the SESJ simply turned and left, probably in part because they also had an anti-Coke rally to attend at 3:30.
The End

X.
Backstreet Boys CDs. If one thing would save us, it would be to deafen the SESJ with crappy 1990s pop music. So as Maria inserted the CDs into her boom box, which also happened to be in her purse (it was a big purse) and started to blast “Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)” at ungodly decibels, a tiny glimmer of hope could be seen on the horizon. Unfortunately, we had forgotten one small thing …
Go to option “I” or “V”

Y.
“Y” is a pretty useless letter. Is it a vowel, is it a consonant? Who knows? The only place this letter belongs is on Wheel of Furtune. For picking this letter, you can quit reading this and get lost.
Go to Missouri.

Z.
“I’m a Pittsburgh Steelers fan.” Those five words repulsed me and I dropped that broad like a bad habit. Being as I had just saved her life, I probably could have gotten a little bit of lovin’ but being as she was a Steelers fan, I probably would have caught an STD.
The End