I was invited to play golf at one of the finest, exclusive golf clubs on the east side of Cleveland Saturday. After a light lunch, I walked over to the practice area to warm up. There were a number of other golfers, all quite serious, concentrating on their swings "on the range;" but calling the practice area a "driving range" is blasphemous at this club. This is no ordinary golf course -- the players are never called "golfers;" and I was in a tournament in which all were my fellow "competitors."
So, you see, it was all quite ... stuffy. No shorts allowed. Collared shirts only. Caddies required. No golf carts allowed. And, of course, golf, the gentleman's game, is played with a respect for nature, at peace with one's inner self.
As I said, I walked past the grass-covered tennis courts to the practice area and then past the resident golf teaching professional, who was teaching a group of five women, explaining the intricacies of sand play, and past about 30 competitors who were warming up to the end of the practice area.
My custom is to hit about 20 balls to loosen up. I hold to the theory hypothesis that one has only a limited number of good golf shots over the course of one's life, that number being unknown; so, why waste good shots practicing needlessly. It's a delicate balance to strike, knowing that at any particular time, one might have hit life's last good shot; so, I have determined that 20 shots to warm up is the ideal number for me.
So, I went through my routine. I end my routine by hitting three or four balls with a 6-iron. I was very satisfied with the controlled fade and had two balls left. I thought I'd hit a draw; I took the club back and started down with my swing, and I felt like a hot, sharp needle was sticking into my neck. The ball went skittering off to my left. I grabbed my neck -- something was moving! I threw it down. On the ground was a large THING with a black body and white stripes. I had never seen anything like it in my life. It was obviously from another planet, trying to inject me with some kind of toxin to ... turn me into an ALIEN HORNET!
I slammed my 6-iron into the huge THING with a black body and white stripes and large red eyes! Wham! It was still moving! WHAM! "Goddamn (WHAM!), mother-fucking (WHAM!) son of a bitch, (WHAM!) shit, (WHAM!) fucker!"
Dead. Smashed. I couldn't see the THING with a black body and white stripes. Obliterated with a 6-iron. Hah! Humanity is saved!
I turned around to head back to the clubhouse. I felt like 30 sets of eyes were on me.
And then I realized: They thought I was swearing and smashing my golf club into their precious turf because I hit a bad shot! They were hoping that they would not be playing with me; if this was how I acted during practice, what would I be like during a match?
They had no idea I just saved the world from an alien invasion.
And my proof -- it was gone.
"No one has ever asked to see my birth certificate. They know that this is the place that we were born and raised." -- Mitt Romney, 8-24-2012.
I have a couple questions, Mitt.
Why don't you just come out and say what you really mean instead of using code: Mr. Obama is a man of color.
And use the word you actually want to use. Really, go ahead. Substitute the word you actually want to use for "man of color." Because that is what you really mean when you use the code, isn't it?
And then there is the other question: Isn't your first name really Willard?
A wimp who hangs out with rats. Yeah, that movie came out; and you decided to use your middle name.