In previous thoughts, I warned people to keep a 3-state perimeter from me if I decide to go golfing. OMG, or “Oh My Golfing” as I call it, is a source for non-stop comedy. How many of you have seen the movie “Caddy Shack” with Bill Murray? I love how he pretends he is getting ready to hit the winning shot. I do this too; I daydream of success, standing there on the 18th hole of the final round of the Masters Classic. But in fact, I should be registered as a Lethal Weapon.
If a ball can be shanked, sliced, shattered, spliced, smashed, shredded or destroyed to subatomic particles – I’m your man! I am a master at golfing absurdity. If there are trees and water hazards nearby, I have a self guided capability of locating them. If the US Military needs a military strike, sign me up, Rambo at your service. Just give me a 9-iron or a Big Bertha driver depending on how thick the concrete reinforced bunker is. Sand in the Middle East? Puhleeze, I live in the sand traps. I know no fear but my enemies know me well.
Now I like to count my actual score. My father wants me to handicap myself. Now this is an oxymoron if ever there was one. Yes, I know I am a handicapped golfer – no need to rub it in. So I have contemplated entering a tournament where spectators will be present. My goal is simple – to lower human population and take over the world, then be the master, eh precious?! But I digress.
The problem is that I am registered as a lethal weapon as are my 9-iron and Big Bertha driver. Squirrels, birds, and rodents have a nationwide internest system to warn against my arrival on the women’s tee box. Grounds crews will line up way, way back to repair divots, foxholes, and trenches I leave behind. I am the golf warrior. So my evil plot of world domination would never come to fruition. One day I even wore a shirt with no collar and was told I could not wear it on the country club course. “But, but Tiger gets to do it!” I whine. So to comply I had to buy a no collar shirt with their logo on it. Forgive me for not seeing their logic. Now I see who has the power. Where’s my 9-iron? Two can play this game.
Well almost 35 years of golfing has taught me much about the world and philosophy. It is a stupid and absurd place. Yes, that’s as deep as it gets. We strive to perfect a sport of getting a ball into a hole in as few strokes as possible. Can you imagine what squirrels must think? Well, the surviving ones that is. “Hey Bob, come watch this. Look down there; thousands upon thousands of people are watching guys move a ball along the ground. They place it into a hole, pull it back out and then the crowd goes berserk with cheers!” Sam the squirrel looks down and sees Bob dead. “Bob, Bob! OMG it’s that author EW Greenlee. Hit the squirrel emergency broadcast system.”
I hate golf…and besides, green jackets don’t look good on me. But, I will have a defense system when the zombie apocalypse arrives. Time to supply up on Titlists and sharpen my 9-iron. “The battle of our time is about to begin.” So says Master GanDorf.
