Golf Etiquette

     We are now approaching the time of year when the tourists arrive in droves, and some of them actually pay good money to play on our golf course. Some consider these tourists a minor inconvenience, while others regard them as a plague of Biblical proportions. We know that you have come to believe that this is your personal golf course and, at many times of the year, the place is so empty it might be easy for you to regard it as your own private domain. And we also know that it is frustrating to play at a good pace and then come to a screeching halt behind a family of four that are having a hard time figuring out which end of a golf club they should hold. It is easy to curse at them, yell loudly and jump up and down. To make matter worse, some of you fire golf balls at them--as though you were firing a warning shot across their bows. I

     Imagine how badly this reflects on all of us: instead of patiently waiting and, perhaps, giving them a hand, some prefer to hit golf balls in their direction in the hope that they will learn their lesson, let you play through, and regret that they have ever thought to set foot on our sacred ground. Not only is this practice immature, it is dangerous. Take a moment to relax. Examine the clouds and the fairways in front of you. Think about how lucky we are to live here, think about what a nice day it is to be out with good friends enjoying a game of golf. Practice chip shots with your playing partners: aim at the tee box markers. Tell a terrible joke. Slow down. Make the tourist that comes to play at our course feel welcome. After all, the money he spends helps fund the year round luxury we enjoy.

     When I say all this, keep in mind that this philosophy does not apply to motor homes. I swear that the next time I have to follow a motor home that drives at 40 klicks, rides the brakes and slows down to 15 km on ALL curves, instead of turning off at the golf course, I will follow the culprit until he stops and I don’t care if the next stop is in Lethbridge, Alberta. And after I am finished with him, I will go after the rest of his family.

Crazy Cooks in the Kitchen Cause Catastrophies

  


   Finding staff that is not deranged or fleeing from the law is extremely difficult. You would think that there would be scores of young people with culinary skills anxious to show off their gastronomic abilities at the prestigious Royal Long Beach but you would be mistaken. It’s hard to fathom, but there seems to be a shortage of qualified people willing to work in a hot and sweaty conditions preparing fine food (some of it deep-fried) while their friends frolic in the waves. Go figure.

     Not to say that we haven’t tried. But the results of our search for staff have been at times frustrating and at other times catastrophic. Here are some examples of the staff we have to deal with:

Chef A (not her real name): Chef A was very good at her job, and she knew it. She was also keenly aware of the difficulties of finding staff, so she would frequently walk off the job until she got a raise. And so Chef A would come back to work and everything would be fine and then a busy weekend with a banquet and a tournament would loom on the horizon and Chef A would walk off the job, and we would be stuck and be forced to give her a raise whilst muttering to himself about extortion.

Although seemingly a nice person, Chef A had a definite scary side. There was clearly something threatening about her. One of her favorite tricks would be the stand over you as you ate your meal. She would carry a big kitchen knife, or rolling pin, or a cleaver when she asked “How is it?” You would tell her it was absolutely delicious, and (if you were lucky) she would thank you and leave you unscathed.

One day, however, when Chef A was in a particularly bad mood she prepared some food that was, basically, inedible. I think that she rolled a cardboard box in some flour and then fried it, adding some cold tomato sauce for color. When she asked me what I thought of it I told her that I thought it was a little “suspect”, and that it could use some more flavoring. When I regained consciousness, Chef A had again fled from the kitchen, leaving in the midst of tears and thinly veiled threats. I had to promise to give her my next three pay checks and give her a handwritten apology before she would return.

Chef A left six weeks later (without notice) to work with a pastry chef for an obscene amount of money. The last we heard, the maestro Pastry Chef was hospitalized when he told Chef A that the cream-filled pastries needed cream. Chef A has since moved on as a creative consultant for “Hell’s Kitchen.”

Chef B had come to us well recommended and we were excited about his potential. Chef B had great plans for our restaurant: he would personally transform it into a world class dining establishment. It became his obsession. He proceeded to order in the most expensive gourmet foods and astronomically priced kitchen cutlery. We asked him about a paring knife he ordered that wholesaled for $50. "One cannot pare properly without it,”sniffed Chef B, implying that we were barbarians by asking.

Chef B thought that he was tragically misunderstood: he would concoct the most lavish of dishes with unpronounceable names and no one would order them. Instead, they would order pedestrian dishes like burger and fries and nachos. Chef B would fall into depression when a customer would order a grilled cheese sandwich. “Philistines,” he would say. He thought it beneath him to create something so simple. But he would gamely fry the sandwich using the finest of European goat cheese, arrange it on the plate with alfalfa sprouts and Swiss chocolate and orchids and strawberries. He would look at his creation for half an hour after preparing it, dissecting it for flaws, considering the overall presentation-- and then throw the whole thing out. If it ever did get served, the customer would look at the sandwich and say something like, “What the @#%&+ is this?”

Chef B was costing us a fortune. Nobody ordered anything because Chef B would never deliver it. He was such a perfectionist that the most splendid of his works would get thrown in the trash. One Men’s Night, the entire mob waited in the banquet room for their red meat, in near riotous mood. (To be honest, on Mens Night, they are often on the verge of a riot.) We entered the kitchen to see what was holding things up. Chef B was reading a copy of Gourmet magazine. The steaks had been char-broiled and were sitting on the side grill. “Why are these steaks not being served?” we asked. “They are resting” said Chef B. “Wake them up” we said.

Chef B was slowly going insane. No one ordered his food. His grandiose plans were falling apart before his eyes. The clientele didn’t appreciate his genius. The straw that broke the camel’s back? For a daily special, Chef B had prepared his signature dish: a Caesar Salad made of fresh crisp Romaine with anchovy dressing and fresh baked garlic croutons. Chef B lost it completely and had to be bundled up and carted away when one of our members ordered the salad with a request for “extra Thousand Island” dressing.

No one ever looked less like a chef than Chef C. Imagine an old movie with the disheveled and notorious-looking “cookie” on a wagon train, or in a pirate epic. But the pirates eventually had to let Chef C go for being too bizarre looking and abrasive. And that’s when we got him.

Admittedly, Chef C was pretty good at his job, so it was easy to overlook his rather odd personality quirks. He liked to blast 50’s music, big band, R&B, Motown--that kind of thing--when he worked, inflicting his taste of music on all. Heaven forbid you might ask him to turn it down. The one time we asked him to lower the volume to. say, the decibel level of an F-18 fighter jet, pots and pans were hurled about in the kitchen followed by a lengthy diatribe of colorful language. It sounded like a one man band had just fallen down a flight of stairs.

And then there was Chef C’s dog. This was the nicest, gentlest dog you could ever imagine except when it spotted another dog, when it transform itself to something from the gates of hell . It would attack other dogs with impunity, ripping the poor dog to shreds, often in front of the restaurant windows-- which made for an interesting floor show. Often, the horrified owners of the poor little dog that had been just mercilessly torn to bits were in the restaurant, witnessing the entire spectacle, aghast and unable to think clearly because of the big band music blaring in their ears. To add insult to injury, Chef C would then stomp out onto the yard, pat his own dog on the head, and pick up the carcass of the dead dog and return to the kitchen, leaving the restaurant patrons to wonder exactly what kind of “special” the chef might be cooking up.

And then there was Chef D, who dressed all in black and liked to skulk around the golf course complex at all hours. Some of us had the unsettling feeling that someone was watching us through our bedroom windows late at night. Others thought that their underwear drawer had been re-arranged. There were rumors of satanic rituals. There was something VERY unsettling about Chef D, you would talk to him a bit and it would send a shiver up your spine and you would find yourself rushing home to see if you could find the long lost family Bible.

One morning Chef D was late for work so I went to his trailer to wake him up. Outside his trailer I could hear music that sounded eerily familiar:  the song “Wild Horses” that Buffalo Bob danced to in “Silence of the Lambs”. I left without knocking on Chef D’s door. For all I know he might still be in there. I am afraid to look.
　
　
　
　
　
　

All is Lost on Computer, Love Finds a Way

                                                        My bethrothed Svetlana, pines away
                                                       for me, and hopes I send money soon.

 Last year my computer was corrupted (too much time at porn and Ukrainian dating sites) and I lost all my files. You would think that the Golfing Madman would keep a hard copy of each newsletter for his scrapbook, but you would think wrong. That would be prudent and I am allergic to prunes.  So, I placed my faith in the insidious computer and I was betrayed. This was a source of infinite disappointment to me, I had grandiose plans to compile all my rants and put them in a book entitled Yes, I AM Talking to YOU. If I had enough material, I was going to use it for another book entitled Hey, I’m Not Finished Talking to YOU.  Following that success, my third book had a working title of Harry Potter and the Disappearing Mulligan.   I guess I will have to start over, but first I must carry on my correspondence with a 20 year old Ukrainian girl who wants, I believe, to marry me.  Although it costs me $50 every time I write or read a correspondence, it has become clear to me that she adores me, and I am loath to tell her of my numerous faults.

Rush Limbaugh Inspires me to Golf, says Redneck

  
      "I'm not much of a golfer,"says Milton.  "Don't really consider it a sport, know what I mean?  My idea of sport is hunting.  I like to zero in on an animal with my high power rifle and telescopic sight and blow it to kingdom come.  It's a beautiful thing, and the poor dumb animal isn't even aware that it's just about to be kill't.  POW--it's dead.  That's my idea of sport.  

     "But the other day I was watching this thing on The Golf Channel because one of my personal heroes (and a true goddamn American patriot) was going to be on it.  I tuned in early and watched this piece of crap about a homeless guy.  Imagine, a TV show about a homeless guy!  If I want to see the homeless, all I have to do is go downtown and I'd see lots of them.  (I'll tell you something--I wish we could hunt the homeless:  put a bounty on the lazy bastards and guys like me would have this homeless problem cleared up in a jiffy.)

     "Anyway, on this TV show called "Pipe Dreams" (HA!--more like "CRACK PIPE" DREAMS) there's this woebegone fellow who lives in a drainage pipe who wants to be a  professional golfer.  Right.  I''d like to tell him the same thing I tell the homeless I see on the street, which is 'get a job you lazy bum and make something of your pathetic life!' After all, it's this kind of attitude that made America great and if you don't like it ýou're probably a communist.

     "Well, you could ask my friend Rush about that, but it appears that he's mighty busy trying to learn how to play golf from this Hank Haney fellow.  This Hank Haney seems like a nice enough guy--I read somewhere that he used to teach that Tiger Woods rascal.  Seems as though he and Tiger had some kind of falling out. If you catch a glimpse of Haney's wife--she's this tall, leggy, blonde gal-- you might get an idea of why old Hank might not want that Tiger hanging around.

     "I figured I'd learn as my friend Rush learned, so I brought in my set of clubs and set them up in the living room.  I  could tell that my wife wasn't too happy about it but I gave her the look that tells her that I mean business and that was that.  Right away I found out that I have the same problem as Rush because I aim everything way to the right. I took out the lamp and a little unicorn statue that my wife was fond of but that's the price of progress. After all, that's the true American way and if you don't believe it then you're probably some kind of pinko socialist scum.  Know what I mean?

     "I heard Rush say that maybe he was too smart for golf and I think that might be my problem,too.  I'm talking about real-life smart, not fancy school-smart like those liberal morons that think they know everything and hate capitalism and want to tax and spend and are totally un-American if you ask me.
 
      "Well I got tired of swinging and missing and taking out some of the house furnishings and after a while I got so darned mad that I took the clubs and the whole kit and kaboodle out back to the cornfield behind the shed.  My wife asked me what I was doing and I gave her the look that means she's just this close to real trouble. I told her that it was none of her business and that she didn't know anything about golf and the only person who knew less was Hank Haney.

     "I got out my double barrel shotgun and aimed at the clubs and bag and I blew the whole shebang into smithereens.  That's the best time I ever had golfing.  I'd like to recommend that Rush do the same thing.  Or he could come on down and we could just shoot the breeze and maybe go out and have some real sport, know what I mean?

Leading Pro's Size Up Their Chances in 2011

      The top professional's in the world have written in their blogs and on their websites and twittered their goals and plans for the upcoming season.  After exhaustive research, this writer has culled through the information and has been able to sum up the top pro's prospects for the upcoming season, as reflected in what they themselves have had to say:

Tiger:  People are trying to take my money away from me.  Everybody want my money:  lawyers, agents, caddy, wife.  I need my money.  I need more money.  I need it all.

Hey, that's mine!  Thinks Tiger.

Phil:  I was in the drive-thorugh at the Burger joint that I own a piece of and thought to myself, 'Do I really want to be a vegetarian?' And then I thought, 'Do I really want to be ranked Number One?' Maybe I will find the answer someday, in the meantime, I really want to have a good burger.

Ernie:  I have the experience and that's a valuable thing.  Unfortunately, my experience means that I have a lot of history, and that's not a good thing.  Like the double bogey I had at the end of my first round at Augusta last year.  Or the triple I had at the U.S.Open.  Or the bad tee time I had at the Open.  Or the quad I had at the PGA.   See what I mean?  I have experience, but I also have a lot of history.

Lee Westwood:  I am the Number One golfer in the world.  That's right--Number One.  For all of you who criticized me for not winning a major, or gave up on me when I was ranked like 700, I want to tell you something and this is it:  I am the Number One golfer in the world and you can just fuck off.

Ian Poulter:  I was thinking that my line of men's golf clothing should be more adventurous and bold.  I think that there should be more taffeta and satins and silks and even lace to complement the parachute nylon.  And more vibrant colors, too.  This year, I am especially fond of magenta.  Oh, and I also golf.

Rickie Fowler:  I hear all this stuff about a sophomore jinx and I think that must be like a caution light.  Oh wait, that's me dressed as a caution light.

Sergio Garcia:  I have all the talent, but cannot make the putt.  Long drive and ball on green and I cannot make the putt.  Life is so unfair.  I spit in the cup because I cannot make the putt.  It is not fair.  I cannot make the putt.

Rory McIlroy:  I have decided to stay in Ireland and play the European Tour.  This way, I can go home and run around my mansion in my underwear and read press clippings that tell me how great I am.  I could do the same thing in America I suppose, but it wouldn't be the same.

Graehme McDowell:  So, after I burst upon the scene last year and won the U.S. Open and helped win the Ryder Cup and stole the Chevron away from Tiger what do I do for an encore?  Beats me.

Martin Kaymer:  Hit the fairway.  Hit the middle of the green.  Sometimes make the putt.  Never, ever make a bogey.  It's a simple philosophy, I know.  I am simple and efficient.  You may think that it's boring but it's pretty exciting for me.

Taylor-Made Stuns Golf World with All-White Driver

"This is the most incredible driver on the market today!" says a golf critic who is paid to say such things.

"I hit the ball with this new club and was astounded by the distance and accuracy.  This is wonderful!" says another golf critic, who is not paid as much as the first guy.

"I wonder why we didn't think of this.  You can bet our R&D boys are working overtime to match this technology trying to  figure out how to paint our drivers pure white," says a Callaway spokesman.

     In a bold move, Taylor-made has released all-white drivers for 2011.  Both the R11 and the Burner Superfast are now pure matte white, with a black face so that golfers can improve their alignment.  Taylor-made has long held claim that they are the number one drivers in golf.  The company, which was the first to market metal drivers, and in recent years enlarged their market share with clubs that are adjustable, are staking their reputation on a new series of clubs that are white.

     "Our research has shown that our new white drivers out-perform all the newest offerings from the other major golf equipment manufacturers," says a Taylor-made spokesman, "which are, unfortunately for them, black.  Our white drivers consistently hit the ball 20 to 30 yards further and have less dispersion that your typical black driver, which translates into more fairways hit.  Let's face it, white is the new black."

      "There has been a lot of talk in recent years of high launch (HL) and low spin (LS) to optimize the distance of the drive, " says Van Blanc, a scientist at the Taylor-made equipment lab.  "We have devoted a lot of time and effort into moving the centre of gravity (CG) on our clubs so that golfers can have an HL, and we are always focused on the moment of inertia (MOI) so that the spin rate is relatively low, and the coefficient of restitution (COR) although none of us know what that means.  The point is that the club strikes the ball at higher speeds (MPH)."

     "In the case of our new R11 driver, one can adjust the loft using the Flight Control Tehnology (FCT), adjust the face angle with our new Adjsutable Sole late (ASP) and adjust the CG location with Movable Weight Technology (MWT).  All these innovations help in making the new R11 the longest and straightest club on the market today, but, let's face it, the club would not be nearly as effective had it not been painted white (W).  It is our belief, after thousands of hours of research, that W is the single greatest factor in hitting the ball long and straight."

     The new driver, which goes on sale in February of this year, has already created great demand and record-breaking bookings.

Natalie Shatters Hopes of High-handicappers Everywhere

Natalie demurely introduces herself to Dustin

By Romeo Casablanca

       It made my heart glad when it became known that PGA star Dustin Johnson and LPGA star Natalie Gulbis have been dating and can now officially be considered an "item".  I have always greatly admired Ms. Gulbis as both a golfer and a calender girl.  Certainly, the endorsements and attention she has parlayed into a lucrative career have created some animosity and jealousy amongst her fellow competitors, but let's face it, most of them look like middle linebackers and are probably butch besides.  So, most of their complaints arise from the fact that lovely young Natalie isn't playing for their "team".

     I have always suspected that Natalie, with all her wealth and acclaim has been kind of a lonely girl.  In looking over my well-fingered collection of her annual calenders (I keep all of them and couldn't bear to think of throwing them out), I cannot help but think that her lean and taut athletic body and her magnetic smile and the soft curve of her breasts that this was a person with a great deal of sorrow and I longed to console her and caress her and lick away her tears. But it was not to be, in spite of the letters, e-mails,cards, flowers, stuffed dolls, boxes of Titleist's, and naked photos of myself that I sent her.  Even after I was caught by the police lurking around her home and arrested and given a restraining order I still held out hope that Natalie would see that my love for her was pure and real and we were made for one another.  Oh well.

     So, she has taken up with this Dustin Johnson character.  Johnson, you may remember, was on the verge of winning his first major championship last year at the U.S.Open when he flubbed a chip shot and then another and that was that.  He took a 7 on the hole and his chances were gone, and we all thought that would be last we ever saw of him.  But, alas, a few months later, he was once again in contention and needed only a par to get into a playoff at the PGA Championship.  The golfing gods prevailed, however, and he hit his ball far to the right into the gallery.  No one was hurt, thank god.  Poor Dustin, having failed to read the rules for the event, failed to realize that he was in a bunker and he grounded his club.  When a rules official told him of this glaring mistake, Dustin tried to cover up his furtive act by saying "Bunker?  What bunker?"    Oh, c'mon Dustin, you must have realized there were a few bunkers out there at Whistling Straits--not even the groundskeepers know exactly how many, or where they all are.  You would have been better off by playing the whole course as one gigantic bunker, instead of making such a gigantic blunder.

     Now Dustin and Natalie have taken up with one another.  Natalie, bless her graceful limbs and the pleasure her perfect loins promise, has insensitively abandoned my proposals and responded instead to another professional golfer.  Well, maybe she can help the reading-impaired Johnson read the rules before he sets out for another tour event.  And Natalie, if you really want a career boost, have you ever considered videotape?