See that long red thing? It's my tongue hanging out like a golden
retriever's after chasing pheasants. I just finished playing in a
death march -- a five hour round behind a clown who sprayed balls
through 18 neighborhoods and three municipalities. He must grow golf
balls in his back yard. I tried to be understanding -- the round had
to cost him $4 a shot plus green fees -- but, after watching lost ball
searches and practice swings for five hours, I'm ready to rant.
Feel free to jump in with messages, especially your own funny stories
and experiences.
It has come to the point where you have to liquidate an investment
portfolio to pay for a sleeve of pro-quality golf balls. They're like
jewelry -- so valuable that some golfers refuse to play unless their
cart has a combination safe (armed caddies for walkers). Losing a new
ball is like losing a relative. Which means there are times when you
have to wait, and wait, and wait for the group in front to search for
a lost ball. All you can do is stand there and age. Men spend more
time looking for a lost golf ball than they spend looking for their
wife's G-spot. I remember the time, my friend Louie got tired of
watching a treasure hunt. He went up to the search party, pulled out
his wallet and said, "Forget it, here's $20, take a drop."
I try to be patient while the group ahead roots around in the weeds.
If they want to paw through poison ivy or poison sumac, who can blame
them? A case of calamine lotion is cheaper than a dozen Pro V-1
practice balls. If I lost track of a Pro V-1, I'd file an insurance
claim -- which is why I don't play fancy golf balls, I see no reason
to put a sleeve of balls on layaway. I play bargain-basement cheepos.
Brand X is a step up from the crud I use. I mean, some of my golf
balls have corners. Right now, I'm playing balls that have a Harvey's
Cook Shack logo.
Speaking of lost balls, have you heard the one about the golfer who is
busy looking for a lost ball and fails to see an errant shot coming at
him? The shot nails him, bulls eye, square in the crotch. He drops to
his knees, grabs himself and screams like a soprano, "Help! Somebody
help me, I'm hurt!"
His buddies put him in a golf cart and take him to the clubhouse where
they call an ambulance.
At the hospital, a doctor reads the x-rays and tells him it's
necessary to put his manhood in a splint. The guy goes berserk, he's
supposed to get married the next day. He says, "No way!" But the
doctor insists, "Sorry. You're badly injured. It has to be splinted or
it won't heal."
The marriage goes off as planned. On their wedding night, the bride
lights a dozen candles,
slowly wriggles out of her clothes, runs her hands up and down her
luscious body and coos, "I've saved all this for you, darling. You
will be the first man to make love to me. I've never been completely
intimate before."
The groom leaps to his feet, unzips his pants, points to his crotch
and says, "Check this out. It's still in the crate."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * *
I like to play eighteen holes without finishing with a lantern in my
mouth, which begs the question: Is there a remote island where we can
send the clods who take 15 practice swings before every shot? If you
want to rehearse, go to the range. Find a mirror and admire yourself.
Ditto for putt surveyors. There should be a rule (the death sentence
would be a good start) against looking at a putt from every
conceivable angle unless first prize is at least a million dollars and
you're in the top ten in the world rankings. I'm also annoyed by
golfers who squat behind the ball and dangle a putter in front of one
eye. Are they trying to see if the building across the street is
plumb?
The widespread use of cell phones by people who are supposed ot be
playing golf is a plague. Make up your mind, pick one: golf or babble.
Golf courses have become wireless phone booths. Total darkness can't
slow play any more than morons who make and receive phone calls. Those
of us who play with people who carry cell phones, should apply for gun
permits. We need to be armed, it's the only way to thin the herd and
eliminate the inconsiderate nitwits who stand next to the first tee,
talk on the phone for 20 minutes, and then say to you, "Oh, hi there,
my name is Rodney. I'll be with you in a minute, I have CitiBank on
the line."
Ready, aim, fire!
If a dozen phones aren't ringing within earshot I feel uncomfortable
-- it's like something is missing. I've been paired with golfers who
negotiate deals, hire and fire people -- one guy wearing a headset
dictated a letter while trying to get out of a bunker. Remember the
telephone solicitors who lost their jobs when unwanted sales calls
were banned? They all took up golf!
Does anyone leave the house without a cell phone and a bottle of
water?
Recently, I played golf with a yutz named Stan. His cell phone was in
the cart and it rang while we were on the green. When he got to the
cart, he returned the call. He said, "Hi, this is Stan returning your
call. (pause) That's all right, I would have missed the putt anyway."
Isn't it amazing that tour players can last four whole hours without
calling their agents to see if there's something new to endorse? How
does Phil Mickelson stay in touch with his bookie?
Here is proof that things are completely out of whack -- a letter from
my gastroenterologist:
Dear Mr. (name withheld),
Your latest lab tests indicate an elevated potassium level that needs
to be monitored. Your sodium and globulin results are slightly outside
the normal range. What about this one, Eddie? An easy six or a hard
seven? Okay, I'll go with the six. Aw, shit! I came off it, now it's
in the trap.
The good news is your creatinine is back within range and your red and
white blood counts are normal. No, not the sand wedge, the lob wedge.
I like the extra loft when I don't have much green to work with.
Continue the diet we discussed when you were in the office last week.
Goddamnit, another thin hit. I think it's in the yard -- the third
house on the right. Be sure to drink at least eight, that's it, Eddie,
glasses of water every day. Please schedule a follow-up appointment
for April. Hey, Eddie, remind me to schedule a golf lesson to get rid
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