My wife plays golf in a league, so on occasion I will
accompany her to the driving range where she can spend some quality time with the
white dimpled sphere atop my shoulders as well as those at the end of her clubs.
I usually hit a few balls too and of course expertly coach her on all I know
about slicing shots out of bounds into the trees and hooking professionally. Obviously
my ‘caddie’ comments and use of ‘Wite-out’ to disguise range balls’ red stripes
for regular tournament play, clearly shows that her handicaps are LARGE, both
at home as well as on the course.
The spouse seems to appreciate my excellent driver
discipline since I yell at every club in the bag when they make careless mistakes regardless of how nicely I address them.
Being cave-raised has its bat-benefits, but it makes one ill-prepared to stare
at the sun in search of little rocket-launched balls while dodging skeeters,
cart-geezers, and my wife’s dirty looks. So soon enough she tires of my
persistent putter muttering and sends me off to sweep cat treats out of the sand
traps and perfect my Zen garden raking readiness.
Of course venturing so far into nature, away from the
protections of my house-bound pen carries a certain amount of risk, especially for
those un-lucky enough to view my knobby knees in a pair of plaid shorts. Apparently
insects however find my CROTCHety crevices and dewy exposed skin an irresistible
puffy pin cushion draw, despite death as discipline for the price of admission.
Yes I seem to be a big bloated beacon begging to be browbeaten, by every bug,
bird, or unidentified orb that dives n’ flies through the air in search of a
sample of a salty simp.
But alas the tables are truly turned on my buzzing brethren when
they dare flare for touch-down anywhere near my face for a taste. Just like my
much wiser human acquaintances, a sad driving range bee discovered this windy weekend
that it’s best to steer clear of any orifice of mine that is frequently flapping.
Don’t worry though, despite the temptation I didn’t bear down on the black n’
yellow fellow and make him face the ‘grind’; I simply shot the drool-drizzled
dude out in a warm wad of my own ‘nectar’ as a warning of what fate awaits Any Bee I Cee.
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