9:00, 1st tee: I top my Titleist 6 badly off the tee and it dribbles forward about 8 yards, whereupon we all pile into the golf cart and drive out to the ball for my second shot.
9:13, 2nd hole: A 406-yard dogleg right with a water hazard. Par is 5. I shoot a Par2.
10:28, 3rd green: We're all finishing our third Bloody Mary. The rule today is we each have to drink one per hole. Clay boldly suggests one per stroke would have been more fun. I remind him I'm currently shooting 31 and that that particular rule change would make me dead by now
10:44, 4th tee: The foursome behind us asks to play through. Just looking at these elitist, exclusionary, leisure-class, good old boy-networked, cigar-sucking swine, I'm reminded of exactly why I find country clubs so despicable -- plaid pants.
10:57, 5th green: Tough break. Putting from the frog's hair for a "dodeca-bogie," I miss the cup by inches -- I'd guess about 480.
11:11, off the 6th fairway: Looking for my ball in the trees, I spot a grazing deer. Careful to stay upwind and in the shadows, I creep silently closer. Finally, very close, I spring and beat it to a shuddering death with my five iron. Perhaps I'm more frustrated with this game than I realize.
11:25, 7th green: Feeling pretty darn loose, I launch into my Tiger Woods impression. This involves nothing so much as insisting that everybody call me "Tiger."
11:39, 8th tee: At this point, I've lost so many balls that Titleist has flown a representative out to introduce himself and present me with a proclamation from stockholders naming me their "Man of the Year."
11:52, 9th hole: Not surprisingly, after nine holes and nine cocktails I'm driving erratically, recklessly, drunkenly. Very cool and fun, actually, until some muckity-muck gets a hair up his ass and tells me I shouldn't have the cart in the pro shop in the first place.
12:04, 10th hole: The ball washers on this course do a nice job but, as usual, are mighty rough on the scrotum.
12:17, 11th green: Against course regulations, I drive the cart into a bunker and get stuck. Our efforts to extricate the damn thing cause it to roll onto its side; another push and we get it to roll over, out of the trap and back onto its wheels. In the process, the cooler of Bloody Marys spills. I haven't seen the guys since they drove me back to the clubhouse parking lot and locked me in my car trunk. ©