BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL 2013 – LETTER “G”

GOLF

Golf is a game that was invented by the Scots and my father, being a Scot, played the hell out of it. He played at night (with flashlights) with his other deranged Scottish friends. In the winter, they all painted their balls red, and golfed in the snow. How in the hell they were able to find their balls in 8-foot drifts is beyond me, but they did. That became moot after we moved to California from Michigan. My mother was a Scot, too. My folks were native-born; my ma in Edinburgh and my dad in Glasgow and they emigrated to the US. I was born here in the United States, in Michigan.

I wasn't even this good. I'm surprised my dad overlooked my deliberately horrible swing. Here, Charles Barkley looks like he's battling a swarm of bees. Actually, I could do no wrong in his eyes; typical daddy's view towards his only child and a girl to boot.

Ma didn't care much for golf; every so often my dad would pester her into a trip to the course for 9 holes. Me? I have no golf gene. I also have no flying gene; both my parents were pilots and I hate flying. Golf is just “flog” spelled backwards. The Scots are kind of peculiar. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my heritage. William Wallace is an ancestor, but the Scots either invented weird stuff (Nessie?) or latched onto some crazy things invented by other nationalities. Take the bagpipes; we didn't invent those, but I adore them (a sure sign I'm a Scot.) There's a joke that goes like this: Q: Why do bagpipers walk while they play their pipes? A: To get away from the sound.

Wallace bagpipes being played by a Wallace; no English here; no offense, but Anglo-Scots creep me right the hell out.

Anyway, I went to the Driving Range exactly once with my dad and I sucked. I kept slicing and badly. I was beaning other people who were on either side of me, that's how bad I was. I went to the course with my dad and hit someone in the foursome ahead of us. We almost had a riot on the course. Damn geezer, just because I hit some old crock with his little pink plaid plus-fours and his little pink tam o' shanter, he's got to go and get all his little older, crockier friends and they came at us with their 9 irons and walkers and Larks. He needed to be hit, the old eyesore!

The guy in front 2nd from the left displayed daring individualism and wore a cowboy hat. Are there golfing cowboy boots? At least these guys are wearing long pants. The plus-fours are beyond ridic.

So, that was the end of my golfing career. My dad still golfed and golfed everywhere. He went to Saint Andrew's in Scotland and raved about it for years. What an armpit that course is! It looks like it's one big giant rough and there are 747s taking off right over your head. I'd be so worried about the things falling on my head, I wouldn't be able to concentrate. Last New Year's Eve, I couldn't concentrate on trying to look at the fireworks, because these stupid little planes were flying directly over my head; two of them and I just knew those suckers were going to fall down right on my noggin. The only good plane is the one sitting on the ground, along with the golf clubs.