But what the fock, themirror told me that on my upper chest was a patch of hair where none had beenbefore, 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 oughtto call a doctor, which I did, and now I got to leave in a couple, threeminutes to go see him.
Before I made the call,I did consider that the rich-guy Johnson Republican running to be U.S. senatorfrom Wisconsin has touted the benefits of the low-cost medical care you can getfrom Walmartthat’s right; fockingWalmart. But savvy health-services consumer that I am, I figured that when yougot some kind of unexpected growth on your chest, it might be wiser to seek theexpertise of a regular doctor with his own office, as opposed to going to adiscount store and getting prescribed a savings-coupon for a bag of Scotts TurfBuilder available in the lawn & garden department.
Anyways, seems the big news aroundthese 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’sthat they’re expecting thousands of spectators up at this Kohler shebang. I’vealways thought of golf as the “fishing” of spectator sports. Jeez louise, golfis a thing you do, not watch. Same goes for painting thegarage. I don’t care how good a brush stroke a guy has when it comes toslapping on the ol’ Dutch Boy, you got to be focking nuts to stand there andwatch.
Time for a theme-relatedstory: So thisguy slices his tee shot way off into a field beside the golf course. He trudgesover to the field and finds his ball nestled in amongst some buttercups. Helines up his shot and on his back swing he hears a voice: “Please don't hurt mybuttercups.”
He stops hisswing, sees no one, and prepares to hit again. “Please don’t hurt mybuttercups.” 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, Ican guarantee you an abundant supply of butter for the rest of your life.”
Theguy thinks about this and says, “Yeah swell, so wherewere you last week when I hit my ball into the pussy willows?”
I hear it takes a lot ofdough to open one of these golf-course country clubs, and a lot of dough toenjoy its resources. I’ve never been to a country club. They tend not to beconveniently located on any county bus line I know of. But I’ll open up my ownplace as soon as I win the focking lottery. I’d call it Peckerwood. To keepmaintenance costs down, there’d only be one hole, but it’d be about 12,000yards long. And the one and only green would be located right outside the Uptownertavern/charm school, which would serve as the 19th-hole clubhouse for grand oldPeckerwood. There, the duffers could enjoy a nice shot and beer whilst regalingone another with stories of memorable rounds played:
So this guywas not having his best day on the golf course. After he choked on a 6-inchputt, 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 oncea focking week.”
Andhis partner says, “That’s nothing, She’s cut some ofus out altogether!” Ba-ding!
Hey, a swing tip: “Sinkholede Mayo,” free concert on the East Side Sunday, Aug. 15, noon-7 p.m. in the parking area shared by Sil’s, Chubby’sand Hotch-A-Do, corner of Kenilworth/Oakland/North. Support your localneighborhoods 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 PaulCebar, wang-dang-doodle gracious knight of 44th & Hope.
Even though it’soutdoors, I’m thinking of shining around for a bit myself, what the fock,’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
