Sunday, January 10, 2016

Stick an Eight Iron Up Your Ass, Sir

>Life, Liberty, and what did you say? – Got a gas can?<

Long ago, there was yet another controversy at 23rd & Saint Louis Avenue. What’s the problem? Not only won’t Bill Hughes golf, he has refused to caddy. The reason? “I don’t like those old [mafia] guys.” Yes, I nailed it at age 11, and here’s how it went.

Like Howard, when Charles Hughes hit the golf ball, unlike my human body lately, it went places. And, for several rounds of golf, Charlie would not disabuse himself of “Bill the Caddy” as a viable concept. I said, over and over, “I can’t hit the ball, I don’t like golf, and I won’t do it.” Why not? Apparently, Russian troops were going to land on New Jersey’s shore if I failed to produce the golf club fast enough.

I can handle pressure, but not about a fucking golf club. Charlie’s lecture about the three wood clubs, I may have forgotten. The lecture included when to use the clubs as I was thinking, “Mom will get me out of this.” On the green, I was early to identify Charlie’s golfing weakness as he gyrated and cursed over a missed putt. I ingeniously said, “Why not try a different putter?”, and he did.

I think our Catholic uniform money went toward this magic putter, then I got his lecture about the materials and craftsmanship that went into the modern putter, circa 1965. Because of this weakness, Charles would too often say, “That’s a bogey.” And? The young me said, “I know that, dad.” Me as scorekeeper? I just didn’t get it, as with bowling.

Finally, Charles was cornered by two maternal uncles who said, “Charlie, he just won’t do it.” As for the session at TOWER TEE, God above knows 40 years later, he was still trying. On that occasion I said, “You can buy as many buckets of balls you want, I can’t hit the damn ball.” The happy part of this is, at age 73 the ball would go up in the lights and I still did not know where it landed. The man could hit a golf ball straight, like Howard. Get it, Halliburton?

I then began counseling Charlie on how someday he would be so old, he could no longer play golf. Since I’m so opposed to covert anything, I will disclose it was a GE phone on the wall at 11019 Molerus Drive when he wistfully said, “Bill, this might be the last 18 holes.” I kind of liked the guy, and not my evil relatives who apparently tossed him in in a VA grave with very little fanfare. And the bigger insults are: a). The alleged family members knew where I was “stuck.” b). It is apparently a family tradition to confiscate property. Their problem? I’m not dead yet. I’m Howard’s son. Why do I yell at airplanes at air shows? Because I can, and this is legal.

Meet E. UnqualliIfied Shrikus, Ph.D. He’s got the report!
“Mister Hughes has a long history of shouting at airplanes under the influence of his DNA. This serious condition began with irrational comments on the F-4 Phantom, and continued into adolescence with pathological remarks about the Harrier Jump Jet. He was often heard making inappropriate remarks like, ‘How the fuck does it do that?’ This indicates a clear malfunction in the upper corps cerebral text, manifested by...



“Tonight, the show is in Iowa to ask Republican candidates about Area 51 and DARPA flying triangles. Our first guest is Deputy Sheriff Buttkiss, who saw a UFO from his squad car in 1976, our Bicentennial year, Sheriff tell us about the…  

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