I went golfing this past Sunday evening. I golf like once a year. And I only go to drive the carts recklessly, and hang out with some bros. This time I was with a bunch of the Fuzz. One sheriff deputy, and one FBI agent. ("I am an F.B.I. agent!" / "I know, ain't it wild" <- points to anyone who can name the title of that movie) We played Dublin Ranch, a newer course a little higher in the hills of the East Bay. Super well maintained, beautiful views, and a lot of fescue lining the long fairways. See that Fescue Farmer in that picture, yeah, that's fescue. You try finding a ball in the fescue. Futon the fescue.

I've never understood the game of golf. First of all, the entire scoring scheme is so anti-american. No one wants to have the lowest score in anything. Maybe the French, but I can't think of anyone else. And the prices are insane. What, I pay $48 (only because it was twilight prices, mid-day is $76!) to play on someone else's grass? I mean, same thing is happening with ski resorts. What the Futon is going on here? Is it costing more to make snow these days? Is God charging extra for the fine powder? Back on track, I think golf course maintainence union workers have gone on a bit of a strike. Somehow not enough of my $48 is trickling down the totem pole of seniority and into their pockets. Reason being? The fescue.

I got two feet of fescue on either side of the course, and for some reason, every golf ball I hit has an unbridled passion to bury itself deep within the fescue. The fescue is not a fun place to go digging around for fun. It's full of twelve inch potholes, and snakes, and at least six of my golf balls. So, I've got the Fuzz yelling at me, to play my ball, any of the two my seven iron had just buried in the fescue, but I can't find 'em. So I find myself yelling out, "I can't find my balls!"

In my mind, I won. I mean, I did have the most points on each hole.

Comments

Go Back and Forth