We'll be the first to admit this is one hell of an addictive game. But we love this damn game. Its green blood courses through our junky veins like heroin. And we must have the company of fellow golf addicts or we will waste away in some corner of the 19th hole like the hopeless wrecks we are. And we wish you all the best as you feed the monkey on your back. After all, life's a pitch. And then you putt. Another round?
It all started when I was playing in a member-guest at an exclusive men's club in Long Island. The rain had been coming down sideways for an hour, and by the time we finished our morning round, my partner stood on the 10th teebox as we waited for our next opponents who were coming down the 9th fairway and informed me he had to go back to the clubhouse and take a dump. We were as far from the clubhouse as you can get, and I sure wasn't going to take on our next match on my own. So our caddy, Mumbles, mumbled something about a toilet in the woods that the maintenance guy use. My partner made a beeline for the shack, saw a microwave when he walked in the door, and stripped down to nothing but his golf shoes to with the hopes of drying his clothes before resuming play. After stuffing the microwave with his drenched clothes, he sat on the throne and soon smelled something fouler than what was coming out of his ass. He showed up a few minutes later on the 10th tee in nothing but a yellow poncho that was three sizes too small for his Flinstonian frame.
As I looked at him in amazement wondering how he was going to play our next match in that ill-fitting poncho, he began to tell us the tale of his untimely encounter with the microwave. "I put my clothes in it and because they were light-colored, I put it on the poultry setting." Oh brother, I thought. "Here, put this on," I said, handing him an oversized golf towel I'd bought that morning in the pro shop. He peeled off the skin-tight poncho and wrapped the towel around his waist, clipping it tight with the clasp that previously held it to my golf bag. I don't know if it unnerved our opponents, but we wound up smoking them and winning our flight. As my partner sank a putt for birdie on 18, he whipped the towel off and did a little dance in his birthday suit on the green in front of a raucous group of guys having lunch on the back porch.