Yesterday, i was playing golf, so, all my troubles didn't seem so far away.
Golf brings, wunnerful stuff. Nature, sunshine, blue skies, smiling at me. Comeraderie, libation (best to wait til after in spite of some calling it 'aiming juice'), more colors than a rainbow - and that includes white, pink, neons of golf balls, and the most colorful Temu golf shirts your cheapskate buddy can buy.
It brings laughter, tears, frustration, stuff yain't never seen before, repeated stuff ya see almost every time you play. Three Dog Night might say, it's Easy To Be Hard. On a par 3, you can sail a ball a couple hunnerd yards, off justa bit to the left - 9/10's of the way there, but mebbe still only 20 to 30 yards from the hole. You 'lay one', which, ain't to be confused with sex... you've hit it really close, so, ya figure prolly three (total), mebbe four at worst. So of course, it takes you four more shots, you take a five. and laugh, cry, kick, swear, throw a club, mebbe alla the above.
Life, and hitting a golf ball - are kinda alike in that it never goes as you visualize. Tom Watson, he of Kansas City/golf fame, mebbe one of the ones they'd pick for The Mount Rushmore of Golf - got a hole in one in a tourney. After, in an interview, a rookie reporter tried twisting Tom's arm, "Tom, it was a great shot, but... ya gotta admit, there was a little bit of luck there eh?" "Yes, but, it WAS where I was aiming.
Life, as a golf ball. Well, you're borned, or, created, or, manufactured, sumpin. You're stamped (you mean like a dog, kitty, is microchipped? No, I don't). You are a triplet, or, packed in a sleeve of three, all alike. "Then how can I be THE BEST golf ball?" Shut up, golf balls don't talk.
Or, you're manufactured, shipped in a package of a dozen. We call these Catholic golf balls. Victor, you're gonna get in trouble for that one. Oh what the hey, I'm 73, sue me. take me to a jail for three squares a day, I ain't gotta fret about SS not covering rent, life, filling the gas tank, even if they wipe out that gas tax. Besides, I grew up next to a family with nine kids, uh huh, Catholic, they had a sense of humor.
Then, you're placed in a long thing they call a golf bag, and put into the trunk of a car until big daddy has permission from big momma to go play golf. It usually entails something like doing the dishes for twelve days, folding five loadsa laundry, and two or three 'huh uh, no smooching' backrubs. Then you can go.
So, when they open the trunk, can I be like they say dogs are (you know, when you lock a dog and a wife in the trunk, which would be happy to see you when it's opened?} No, golfball, you ignorant slut, you have no feelings, emotions.
If you're lucky, you might get a long vacation in the forest. Or, perhaps, knocked into the lake for a swim. FUN! Will I get to wear floaties like them little kids? No. You'll sit on the bottom of the lake, maybe forever. Maybe until the golf course hires some scuba dude to come fetch you, then he sells you back to the course, who in turn, puts you into a basket of used balls for sale. Used balls look a little rough, like worse for wear.
So.... if I look rough, worse for wear, and I'm sold and sold again and again, would that make me a hooker? Mebbe, or, you could be a slicer. You mean, like those rich guys on the LIV tour? Paid so by a slicer? No, not that.
Sometimes you'll simply get lost in the fairway. Lost until that is, the prevailing whine in the clubhouse is "when in the hell are they gonna mow the fairway on #11?" Then, the mower guys might pick you up.
Then do I go into that basket and be resold like a hooker (or a slicer?) No, by that time, your stamp has mostly worn off, you're old, of not much use by now - so, you're sent to be Home, Home on the Range. COOL! Like a ranch? No, more like an assisted care or a nursing home. You're put in a machine, then, in a bucket. You're of use, until you then kick the bucket.
Wow, I ain't sure I'd like to be a golf ball.
Eh, I dunno. You'll have dimples, mebbe be cute. If you're owner is a sicko who can't really golf, you might have a fun motto stamped on you like, "Be the ball", or, "May the Course be With You", or, "Return to Pro Shop for a Free Round", or "If you found this, you suck too."
There's kinda a caste system in golf balls. Ya got the uppity ones, you know, for like Royaly, Congress, Lobbyists.. the ones that The Working Man might purchase... Then, you might be onea them Nitros like they sell at Wally. Name sounds great but you're usually purchased by some dude who plays golf once ("I'm gonna try this here game") only to be sold the next summer in a garage sale to someone even poorer like me, and then, we'll lead you to the forest or the lake.
Cheer up. You come in many bright, vibrant colors... while you'll never get SS, you'll never have to work.. you get to fly... eat worms.. hide under leaves... and if you're real lucky, get your picture taken by some dude holding up one finger, and you'll be Facebook hero.
Geez. Life as a golf ball ain't exactly what I visualized.
Uh huh, what I said... fore sure.
Victor, this may just be the dumbest blog you've ever written. Tune in tomorrow, I'll try hard to make one worse. Like, life as a fire hydrant. Or, maybe as a curling puck. Or, maybe as a rugby ball. It takes leather balls to play rugby don't it?
Uh huh.
Oh if I could only putt like Justin Rose.. chip like Phil Mickelson, and drive like Tiger Woods.
On second thought, nevermind on that last one.
Love, Victurd
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