There's an annual tournament at our club. It's not an official golf thing. It started as a celebration of one man's birthday (Junkman) and now it's a little cult following. It's invitation-only. The husband had to be out of town but I went for the steeple chase and the dinner. I bopped from golf cart to golf cart. One of my girlfriends called me a "Golf Cart 'ho" so I stopped.
The steeple chase is not the best golfers in the field -- it's the ones with the highest handicaps. We do a little betting and then we all follow them around, yell things and generally make their attempts miserable. For a while, I was riding with Big S' husband and I was obsessed with one player's shirt. It was just wrong. Too hip, too young, too tight. Like a dog with a bone, I couldn't let it go.
My doctor came in second in the steeple chase. I bet on him and thanks to him, I won some money. He was wearing an appropriate shirt.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Okay, I am commenting for the first time, describe the shirt..
It had flashy things, like lightning bolts in a vivid color. It was too tight. It was a fabric that should be draped over sheep -- not worn over human beings.
Post a Comment