Parrothead Ramblings

Golf with the Crime Dog, anyone?

So, cow-chasing guy and his wife finally resolved their issues one way or another, shut the hell up, and I got my rest. I headed on over to the golf course alone, since my phriend Eric refused to cough up the cash needed to play. This, of course, required me to needle him endlessly about being a cheap bastard. So, I arrived bright and early for a 7:00 tee time, paid the confiscatory fee required to completely humiliate myself in public, and headed on over to the driving range. I kept looking warily toward the clubhouse, convinced the Golf God was still at the blackjack table and had left me hanging. Then it dawned on me: A Golf God doesn't need practice. He doesn't have to show up early like a mere mortal. Sure enough, he made his appearance at the crack of 7:01, beer in hand, along with three phriends, Tom, Stan, and Stan's fetching wife, Beth. Now, Beth wanted to play, but had apparently hurt her shoulder in some sort of God-only-knows what kind of physical activity with Stan. So Beth became the "Beer Babe," and had a great time just bumping along in her cart and watching us make complete idiots out of ourselves, chasing around that stupid little white ball. Beth has an incurable phunny bone, and the most infectious laugh I've ever heard, so what a great addition she made to the round.

It was a "shotgun start," meaning we had to haul ass out to some remote part of the course, Hole #5 in this case, to start our game. But at length, we finally arrived, and hit our first shots of the day. That's when I learned that "Golf God" is mainly a ceremonial title. It turns out God don't own a golf cart. He managed to find every bunker and body of water on the entire course. Golf God tried his best to blame it on me, alleging that I was afflicted with an uncontrollable urge to fart during his backswing. Nothing could be further from the truth, I assure you. It was completely controllable. Finding no rule prohibiting backswing farting by an opponent, Golf God was doomed to make the most of it.

What a great game we had! We hit bad shots, really bad shots, and shots that would make lesser men give up the game. By 9:00, Beth the Beer Babe had made a sandwich and beer run, and all was right with our world. All but our playing, that is. We came upon one hole where the center of the fairway, about 200 yards out, was covered with ducks. Covered, I tell you, covered. They were as safe as babes in arms. On 16, we suddenly found ourselves challenged to a turf war by a roadrunner. He placed himself immediately between me and the the green and refused to budge. So, I hit my shot. Damned thing ducked like a pro as my ball sailed over his head, and he never left his spot. Golf God kept annoying the critter with his very best "beep beep" imitation until I fully expected an Acme anvil to come crashing down on top of him.

The game ended much too soon. Golf God was the big winner, getting to take a lot more shots for his money than the rest of us. Who knew that the object of the game was just to get your money's worth? First thing I wanted to do when I got back to the hotel was tell Eric The Cheap Bastard what a good time he missed out on. Damned if it didn't turn out that he won $1,000 playing blackjack while we were gone. Guess that'll teach him. Smart ass.
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