ANCIENT CUSTOMS

In Africa some of the native tribes have a custom of beating the ground with clubs and
uttering spine chilling cries. Anthropologists call this a form of primitive
self-expression … In America we call it golf.

Dana E. Wade <>

Karen I. Hackman <>

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LOOKING LIKE A GOLFER

George looks like a golf pro in his designer outfit, but he slices his first drive deep
into the woods. Rather than accept a penalty, he decides to try using an iron to get back
on the fairway. But his ball ricochets off a tree and strikes him on the forehead, killing
him. When he arrives at the Pearly Gates, St. Peter greets him. "You look like a
golfer. Are you any good?"

George replies, "I got here in two, didn’t I?"

Merle O. Newberg in Reader’s Digest

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SPECIAL HONORS

A local golf club once had a big members-only tournament and, at the award festivities
afterward, presented trophies.

One trophy, a surprise gift, went to a popular fellow who didn’t even come close
to winning the tournament. He was so well-liked, his fellow golfers gave him the award and
engraved it:

"To the greatest golfer who never won a tournament."

In gratitude, the recipient thanked his fellow linksters and said:

"I am honored and grateful. To show my gratitude for this wonderful award I am
prepared to buy a round of drinks for everyone … who has never had a drink before."

Terry Marchal <http://www.wvgazette.com/Columns/Terry.html>

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SUPERIORITY OF JEWS & CATHOLICS

The Pope met with the College of Cardinals to discuss a proposal from Shimon Peres, the
former leader of Israel. "Your Holiness," said one of the Cardinals, "Mr.
Peres wants to determine whether Jews or Catholics are superior, by challenging you to a
golf match."

The Pope was greatly disturbed, as he had never held a golf club in his life.

"Not to worry," said the Cardinal, "we’ll call America and talk to
Jack Nicklaus. We’ll make him a Cardinal, he can play Shimon Peres… We can’t
lose!" Everyone agreed it was a good idea.

The call was made and, of course, Jack was honored and agreed to play.

The day after the match, Nicklaus reported to the Vatican to inform the Pope of his
success in the match. "I came in second, your Holiness," said Nicklaus.

"Second?!!" exclaimed the surprised Pope. "You came in second to Shimon
Peres?!!"

"No." said Nicklaus, "I came in second to Rabbi Woods."

Glynnis

Bawdy.Net <>

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OLD BALLS

Two men were playing golf together for the very first time. The first player teed off
and hit the ball into a clump of trees. He finally got onto the fairway, only to hit the
ball into a water hazard. The next shot resulted in a new ball flying over a fence onto a
busy street. The second player said, "Maybe you should use an old ball for this
shot."

The first player looked at him and replied, "I don’t have any old
balls."

The Funnies <>

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GOLF

by Jim Rosenberg, November 16, 1994

People (read: men) get way too serious about golf. When I meet a business client, the
first thing I do is check for golf-related tie pins, poly/poly blend houndstooth slacks,
and slippery shirts adorned with elaborate crests and seals. If I spot a golfer, I know
what’s coming next: the golf analogies. "Jim, you hit a good drive, but I’m
afraid your approach shot is in the bunker." Translation: I’m buying from your
competitor." It’s just as well, because I am horrible at doing business with
golf nuts. I dread getting fax cover sheets with some lame sexist golf cartoon about a
wife nagging her husband for playing too much. I can’t bring myself to walk into
their office and see the plaques and silly little statues with sayings on them like
"I Like to Putter Around." And when I say "no" to the inevitable
"you a golfer, Jim-bo?" I get a look as if I’ve said "no" to
"you a male, Jim-bo?" Golf is a sickness, like alcoholism. I see little
difference between members of AA and the PGA. Both are fanatics who have sold out their
family for an all-consuming addiction; both get little overpriced books of cute sayings
for Christmas; and both are lousy dressers.

I do not speak in total ignorance. I made a respectable run at golfing beginning in
college. I don’t know if it counts, but I would frequently acquire a pleasant,
low-grade beer buzz and head off to Mike Rubish’s Golf City in Durham for some
"Par 3" with friends. This was merely an excuse to drink more beer and eat stale
Oatmeal Pies every time we passed the Clubhouse, but it gave me a favorable initial
impression of the sport.

The next time I took up the game was under pressure. My father and brothers-in-law
played golf on family outings while the women churned butter and sewed doilies. I was
invited to join. I didn’t really want to, but I thought it unwise to make my entrance
into the family as an allergy-suffering, snot-nosed, sports-phobic, skirt-wearing sissy. I
carry that banner with pride now, but back then I was still halfway trying. Amazingly, my
problem was early success. On my first real golf outing, I did quite respectably. I made
contact with the ball consistently and hit it straight, but not far. I was a prodigy. I
was the Doogie Howser of golf. I was a natural. I was headed for a fall.

My fall came quickly. I tried to leverage that early success with my brother-in-law who
lives close to us here in Greensboro, NC. This was back when we had weekend mornings free
before we’d both been put up for stud. We headed out to Longview Golf Course at the
crack of dawn—

Doug with a rock solid set of championship clubs in a rich leather bag, and me with
Barbara’s "Lady Ironettes" in a vinyl archery quiver. The woods wore little
knitted pink covers embroidered with "LOVE." I was shocked to see golfers lined
up at dawn on Sunday morning, chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes and slamming down
Budweiser, or worse. This was not the Masters.

Every week, Doug added one nice piece of equipment: spiked shoes, leather glove, metal
wood. Every week, I added one bad habit: hook, slice, an embarrassing high-pitched nervous
giggle which undermined what was left of my credibility. To make a long story short, I
don’t think I ever got the ball airborne again, except for a brief shot on Longview
#10 which sailed out over Fleming Road and rattled around in the roof rack of an oncoming
Plymouth Voyager. From that point on, I only played because I enjoyed Doug’s company
or I felt some kind of obligation. Finally, golf and I officially broke up and agreed to
see other people. I’ll never forget that last day we had together. It was the me I
thought I had left behind in Junior High School: I was wearing thick Hubble Telescope
glasses since it was too early to put in my contacts. The humidity caused sheets of
perspiration to soak my jeans, expanding them to nine times their normal size and weight.
Most of the time I was either pushing up my glasses or pulling up my pants. The autumn
ragweed triggered an allergy attack of Olympian proportions, making it seem as if I was
weeping. As for my swing, it had regressed to a barbaric swat followed by the horrible
thud of the club being grounded yards before the position of the ball. I slouched towards
the clubhouse muttering to myself and wobbling from side to side. I looked like Mr. Magoo
or the last few minutes of "The Fly" when Jeff Goldblum goes completely over to
the insect realm.

Now when I get a little leisure time, I try to concentrate on Travel Yahtzee. Less
money, less time, less heartache.

 © Jim Rosenberg <http://www.wirecom.com/jim>