‘Sinkhole de My-Oh’
But what the fock, the mirror told me that on my upper chest was a patch of hair where none had been before, ever. Closer examination told me it wasn’t hair, no sir. It was moss. That’s right, focking moss. A guy who discovers he’s growing moss on himself ought to call a doctor, which I did, and now I got to leave in a couple, three minutes to go see him.
Before I made the call, I did consider that the rich-guy Johnson Republican running to be U.S. senator from Wisconsin has touted the benefits of the low-cost medical care you can get from Walmart—that’s right; focking Walmart. But savvy health-services consumer that I am, I figured that when you got some kind of unexpected growth on your chest, it might be wiser to seek the expertise of a regular doctor with his own office, as opposed to going to a discount store and getting prescribed a savings-coupon for a bag of Scotts Turf Builder available in the lawn & garden department.
Anyways, seems the big news around these parts is the big-time golf contest up by your Kohler, Wis. (“Gateway to Howards Grove”). Yes sir, talk about your summertime recreations, fishing and golfing, ain’a? But which is a bigger butt-boring waste of time? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you’s that they’re expecting thousands of spectators up at this Kohler shebang. I’ve always thought of golf as the “fishing” of spectator sports. Jeez louise, golf is a thing you do, not watch. Same goes for painting the garage. I don’t care how good a brush stroke a guy has when it comes to slapping on the ol’ Dutch Boy, you got to be focking nuts to stand there and watch.
Time for a theme-related story: So this guy slices his tee shot way off into a field beside the golf course. He trudges over to the field and finds his ball nestled in amongst some buttercups. He lines up his shot and on his back swing he hears a voice: “Please don't hurt my buttercups.”
He stops his swing, sees no one, and prepares to hit again. “Please don’t hurt my buttercups.” He stops again, looks up and sees a beautiful woman approaching. “I am Mother Nature,” she says. “If you promise not to harm my buttercups, I can guarantee you an abundant supply of butter for the rest of your life.”
The guy thinks about this and says, “Yeah swell, so where were you last week when I hit my ball into the pussy willows?”
I hear it takes a lot of dough to open one of these golf-course country clubs, and a lot of dough to enjoy its resources. I’ve never been to a country club. They tend not to be conveniently located on any county bus line I know of. But I’ll open up my own place as soon as I win the focking lottery. I’d call it Peckerwood. To keep maintenance costs down, there’d only be one hole, but it’d be about 12,000 yards long. And the one and only green would be located right outside the Uptowner tavern/charm school, which would serve as the 19th-hole clubhouse for grand old Peckerwood. There, the duffers could enjoy a nice shot and beer whilst regaling one another with stories of memorable rounds played:
So this guy was not having his best day on the golf course. After he choked on a 6-inch putt, his partner asked him what the problem was. The guy says, “It’s the wife. She’s taken up golf and since she’s been playing, she’s cut my sex down to once a focking week.”
And his partner says, “That’s nothing, She’s cut some of us out altogether!” Ba-ding!
Hey, a swing tip: “Sinkhole de Mayo,” free concert on the East Side Sunday, Aug. 15, noon-7 p.m. in the parking area shared by Sil’s, Chubby’s and Hotch-A-Do, corner of Kenilworth/Oakland/North. Support your local neighborhoods and this is one to support, with the music given by Lil’ Rev, kt’s Universal Love Band, Herman Astro, Peggy James Band, The Subcontinentals, impresario Robin Pluer with Mrs. Fun and the sax-aholic Juli Wood, and Sir Paul Cebar, wang-dang-doodle gracious knight of 44th & Hope.
Even though it’s outdoors, I’m thinking of shining around for a bit myself, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.