If you want to golf with me, bring your hardhat

image Though I’ve only been golfing a few times in my life, it was clear that my reputation had preceded me at the course last weekend. I know this because golfers immediately traded ball caps for hardhats, then scurried down into the sand bunkers like allied forces preparing for heavy fire. As I took a practice swing, the surrounding trees emptied of all bird species — not in a smooth, organized pattern, but in a frenzied explosion of flapping and panicked birdsong that left three Canada geese lying unconscious in the rough.

Speaking of which, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize once again for the tragic death of that swan near the putting green. Had I known the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, things might’ve turned out differently for that majestic creature.

Because of my past experiences, I was determined to make things different this time.

How?

By becoming more comfortable with the game. I immediately went online for help and, thanks to the power of the Internet, found myself on a pornography website after typing in the first term on my list:

Mixed foursome.

For anyone else who might be looking to the Internet for golf-term clarifications, I’d also suggest avoiding Scotch foursome, shag bag, hooded club, loose impediments and (this really goes without saying) woodie. Continue reading

Through self-hypnosis, you can become a better golfer — unless you think you’re a chicken

(Regular readers of this blog — or even readers dealing with irregularity — know Sundays are reserved for flashbacks. And I’m not talking about something that comes as a result of too much tequila the night before. I’m talking about Flashback Sundays, which is when I dust off a post or newspaper column from long ago, back when I was building a readership through the promise of free Sea Monkeys. Today’s flashback is from 2005, when I was asked to return to the scene of a crime where, a year earlier, I had committed the act of golf. I chose this post because now, eight years later, I have been asked to do it once more. The only explanation I have for this is that my publisher has started drinking again…)

Golf is so much more exciting than bowling … OK, not really. Well maybe. Actually, now that I think about it … ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Our universe is full of mysteries:

Easter Island.
The Bermuda Triangle.
California.

And perhaps the biggest mystery:

Why I was chosen to captain our office’s Relay for Life golf team for a second time. Being asked the first time could be attributed to office members not realizing how bad a golfer I really am. Though none of the injuries sustained during last year’s tournament were life threatening, having six golfers (two of whom were playing the hole behind me) knocked unconscious by balls with my initials on them — I thought — would become my golfing swan song.

(Speaking of which, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize once again for the tragic death of that swan near the putting green. Had I known the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, things might’ve turned out differently for that majestic creature.)

Because of this, I fully expected a letter from the American Golf Association (and PETA) denying me access to any course that doesn’t include a windmill and tokens for a free hot dog. Continue reading