Old golfers don’t die — they just keep going, and going…


Judging by some of the commercials aired during golf telecasts, you’d think that every golf fan is an erectionally challenged male in his late 50s looking for a retirement community in Florida, where he can spend his days playing unlimited bad golf on 6,000-yard courses and his nights square dancing with covens of blue-haired old trout who’ve killed off an average of 2.7 husbands apiece.

So I got to thinking, maybe the next generation of golf TV ads could be two-minute product-placement sitcoms. Try to picture a foursome of sixtysomething men at The Ditherage, the happiest retirement community in Florida, when one of their carts veers off into the woods.

“What’s up, Bob?” asks Dave.

“Very funny,” replies Bob, as the cart skids to a halt on the pine-straw. “But you know I can’t make a backswing for 36 hours if I’ve popped a Rectoris. I need to hang out the hose.”

“Again?” says Dave.

“Bob, you piss on the bushes more often than the New York Times. You should try Plumsadrainin, you know, or maybe Gonax? It’ll straighten you right up. Just look at old Ronnie over there on the green, he’s only been taking it for two weeks, and just the other day he pitched a two-squirter from the Acid Reflux tees.” (Ronnie makes a six-footer, high-fives Edgar, bends down to pick the ball out of the hole and falls in a heap.)

“Sure,” says Bob, easing himself out of the cart. He unzips behind a tree, flexing his knees. “But every time Ronnie picks his ball out of the hole, he has a sudden drop in blood pressure and faints. Look at him, he just went down like a f—ing deckchair. Damn lucky he’s developed that big old set of man-hammers. They cushion his fall every time!”

And back to golf…shot, shot, shot, leaderboard, “And we’ll be right back after these messages and a word from your local station.”

Bob is still behind the tree, and Dave is becoming impatient. “Anything?” he says…

“Damn it, Dave, I was this close to getting started, and you ruined my stream of consciousness.” Bob zips up and gets back in the cart. “I’ll just have to wait until the next PJ.”

“That’s okay,” says Dave, “Here at the Ditherage, you’re never more than a hole from your next opportunity to make one—or, for that matter, two. Good thing, too, because since Marge has been putting that LavaFart stool-softener in my oatmeal, I could lay a length of cable across the Atlantic. She says her last husband died from food-poisoning, but I’m beginning to wonder if he didn’t just crap until his head caved in.”

“Speaking of Marge,” says Bob, “how are the two of you getting along now that you’ve decided to entrust your bedroom karma to Big Pharma?”

“Oooh, now you’re talking,” Dave says. “A gentleman doesn’t tell, but suffice to say I timed one just right the other night, and it’s been a while since Marge’s dentures have fallen out for that particular reason. And it was thirty minutes before we were done.”

“Really?” says Bob, surprised.

“Oh, yeah — they went under the dust ruffle, and I put my back out trying to reach them.”

Dave suddenly slams the steering wheel as they screech to a halt outside the porta-potty. “Damn it — the trouser-turtle beat me to it again!”

“Too bad, Dave,” says Bob. “I sure hope you’re wearing your Dampers with Wings, or should I move to the upwind passenger seat on the special E-Z-FLO cart they provide for us here at The Ditherage?”

And back to golf…or maybe not. I mean, who knows what will happen next at The Ditherage, the General Hospital of golf….