Potlickers

I went golfing this weekend with the potlickers in the photo. These are grown men but they don't act like it. They ate fried pork all weekend and then had a farting contest in the van back. Mr. Nicolson was the winner.

I hate golf for many reasons but mainly because I suck at it. So I was in a foul mood all weekend, and my mood wasn't helped by the fact that I was playing even worse than I normally do.

On the 14th hole, four of us were walking up the fairway for our 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th shots. The always impatient Mr. Clark teed off despite the danger. His shot whizzed past my head and rolled to the middle of the fairway near the green and about 330 yards from the tee. Mr. Nicolson didn't like Mr. Clark's impudence so he stomped on his ball and placed a leaf over it. Five minutes later Mr. Clark came looking for his ball. He paced about nervously, genuinely puzzled and confused, while we were shouting directions:

Forward, no back! Left, no right! Maybe it went in the water!

Mr. Clark was wandering around in circles like a prize bull with Mad Cow Disease. When he finally found his ball, he plucked it out of the mud and gently placed it atop a tuft of grass, which is allowed in Canada. Now, forty yards from the pin, he expected to birdie the hole, but he duffed his next shot into the woods.