Caddycide
Looking back at the summer, a highlight – maybe The Highlight – was when I viewed the afterlife. I went there. A first. I benched myself. Caddycide. A bit of pain. Then a chance to watch from the ether.
My Call with Kevin
I don’t enjoy publishing transcripts of phone calls. But I thought this one might be pertinent to the blog – my interjections in italics. And please don’t comment how everybody doesn’t record transcripts of their phone calls. I know better.
Golf is Stoopid
Golf, is what you hear. Snore, is what you may think. Hitting a ball into a hole with a stick, really? Pfft. What a waste. For what possible reason would any half-wit spend a day… Woah, okay, just woah. If
How to Teach Your 3 Year-Old to Golf
I find myself on a golf course. The sun gets higher, and the damp turf steams like a feminist after a Trump tweet. A tournament. I’m a caddy. At this moment, my player is breaking down, stationary, in tears, finding
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