Fat Golfers

I was finishing up my ride this morning. As usual, I got another flat on the way back from the islands. The Meadows is located out by the highway near the intersection of University and Interstate 75 in Sarasota. That is where we are staying, a golf community that my mother and father in law rent for a couple months each year. We usually stay on the key, but during spring break we sardine it with them at the condo, hole number 15.

I have no problem with golfers really. I started my fitness regimen by opting to walk 18 holes vs. riding during some winter play a long time ago. It was a catalist for change, golfing, during the winter months of 1997. I played a lot of golf back in the day, I was a junior golfer, growing up on the Columbia Mo Country Club course. I worked there as well, cart boy, bag boy, wash my clubs boy, shut up while I show you how to hit, boy.

I got fired from that job because my friend, Hall Trice, now a Pshycho Analist in Columbia, pissed off the pro somehow and we got caught in a lie. His mom was dating him ta boot, what a fiasco. We were doomed from the start. Never date your pro.

The icing on the cake was when, after sneaking back to the club for a midnight golf cart outing, we see another golf cart up on hole number 4. Thinking we were doing the right thing, we rolled up there to see who had stolen it, quite possibly doing harm to the cart or course; what we were most likely doing being out there ourselves. Turns out it was the golf pro himself, naked with one of the cocktail waitresses. They were skinny dipping in the lake where most of my golf balls had been deposited through the years.

We never worked another hour.