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Golf Humor


Elvis the Pelvis
By Carson Cockman
 
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There’s something wrong with my hips.

Besides being roughly the size and shape of a semi-tractor trailer tire. There is nothing wrong with them. But Irvin says they will not pivot properly for golf.

Some of you out there have had the course pro say mean things about some part of your body, as I haVE had. Irvin, the pro, says more mean stuff about various parts of my body than a potential ex-wife at a divorce proceeding. He gets more money out of it, too.

I swear I think Irvin and the other pros sit around in the bar and think up things with which to berate fledgling duffers…For example, your feet.

Irving: “Say…Hand me another scotch, will ya? What body part are we going to hit em with this time?”

Other pro no one has ever heard of before: “Hmmmmm…hic…Lessh talk about feet today! Feet always get em.”

So, they take their charges out to the tee and begin to tell them how their feet are not spaced properly in relation to the ball. They study our feet like a physicist studies a quark. Their electron microscope eyes bore into the sub-atomic particles and they say something like:

“It’s either a bunion or your feet need to be bound like a Chinese slave girl’s.”

It was “hip day” for Irvin. He told me I was not pivoting my hips as I swung through. He began by putting his hands on my hips from behind.

Normally, when this happens with two men in public, it is usually best to avert one’s eyes and just play through, thus respecting the right to privacy of the two men.

But butt touching is not only considered normal during golf lessons, it shows the casual passersby that one is totally dedicated to the idea of perfecting golf to such a degree that one would mate with an orangutan if it would add length to one’s drive.

So, here I am swiveling my hips to make contact with Irving’s hands on either side. I look like the 1950’s Elvis whose gyrations were banned from the Ed Sullivan Show. I get so carried away with the hip tossing that harmonic frequencies begin to amplify to the point that I fall flat on my…putter.

I probably registered 7.5 on the Richter scale.

Tsunamis were reported in nearby water hazards.


Satisfied that he’d left me in a complete state of public humiliation, he left me on the practice tee singing “HUNKAHUNKA BURNING LOVE.”

I think I am making progress, though.

Two geriatric lady duffers threw undergarments at me.

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For more golf humor, please visit author Carson Cockman's Blog Site.

© Copyright 2006 by Carson Cockman

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