Tommy, you four-eyed dingbat,
Sorry you didn’t make it up to Sleepy Hollow the other day, for our editor-in-chief’s outing with some of the staff and a few of our big advertisers. Morrice mentioned that you refuse to play in anything but powder blue, and your leisure suit was still at the dry cleaners. What a pity, as Henry Longhurst said, after that old fop Sanders gave it the melting left wrist on the final green at St. Andrews in ’70. Actually, now that I come to think of it, he was fond of the pastels too wasn’t he? Ha, ha! Damn it, but you don’t pay me enough. Hang on a minute … that’s right, you don’t pay me at all.
Anyway, as you know, Peper is a member at Sleepy Hollow, but between you and me, the chap couldn’t hit the sea from the deck of the Nimitz. He hit a beauty off the first tee, and then stone cold topped it with an 8-iron, bladed a sand wedge into the back bunker, fatted it out, and four-putted. Played all day with a demented banana ball. All right, I thought, the man’s a writer, and has obviously been spending a little too much time stabbing at the laptop, but sweet mother of god, you should have seen what he was wearing. I know I’m something of a traditionalist when it comes to golf attire, but these were a pair of shorts that were entirely unacceptable by anyone’s standards. They were a disturbing blue gingham, and so voluminous that he had to take three paces in them before they started to move, and any gust of wind on the downswing was enough to provide those bystanding with a ghastly fleeting glance of what looked like a button mushroom. Granted, it was chilly.
I know I shouldn’t tease staff members at the rag, but heck, it’s fun. Take Morrice for example, with that ridiculous goatee that he has been attempting to cultivate for the last two years. My aunt Myrtle’s cat could lick it off, and considering the man is one of our instruction editors, I think it’s safe to say that while he does a great job of putting those pieces together, I don’t think he ever reads them. Why, the safest place to stand in our group, was by the flagstick! Sadly, Purkey wasn’t there, as he was busy butchering my latest column, and by all accounts, lately he’s become suicidal on the links.
The golf course was one of the prettiest I have ever set foot on, I reluctantly admitted to Peper, who was suitably smug in a “Yes, and you’ll never be a member” kind of way. One thing I was particularly careful of, as I saw the movie (during which I soiled myself, and the person next to me). We finished before dark, and I stayed away from any oak trees.
Keep your stick on the ice,