never to give up, no matter what the situation."
But Jack never claimed he was leaving the game. Oh wait a minute....
Now, now. I know Jack Nicklaus. And I'm no Jack Nicklaus.
I've got to go through with this. Four weeks from today will be my last round for a year. I'm committed. Or is that I ought to be committed?
Today I got an email from Eric Tracy a.k.a. The Mulligan Man (see themulliganman.com).
And it wasn't just any old heyhowyadoinwhassup? It was an invitation to go to Vegas in November, play golf for three days, and chomp on stogies for a night or two while sucking down copious cocktails and telling the raunchiest golf jokes our early onset plagued memories can recall with an accomplished crew of fellow Golfoholics.
How can I possibly go?
How can I possibly not go?
It's not even quittin' time yet, and I'm already losing my battle to overcome my addiction for a year. I've fallen off the wagon and I can't get up.
Can I grandfather in the weekend? We've been planning it since Mully called from Vegas after the last Big Smoke. I was walking into a Springsteen concert in DC, and Mully's passion for putting this weekend together matched the Boss's onstage. If you've ever seen Bruce, you know what I'm talking about.
I can't disappoint him with a no-show.
I search my soul and wonder if I could possibly go and not play golf.
The current odds in Vegas are 365 to 1 against it.
The ad guy in me takes solace in the slogan "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
But the writer in me says "No way Jose, this is full tilt disclosure. What happens in Vegas goes in the blog."
I'm f#cked.
Posts
2 comments:
You're f*cked alright. F*cked in the head. You know that - right?
I'm doing a reality check here for you.
Personally, I think you'd have better luck hanging your dick up in your closet for a year than hanging up your Clevelands.
But what would I do with my balls?
Post a Comment