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Sex and the Golfer
By Carson Cockman

I want you to know that this humorist is not afraid to tackle the tough issues in the golfing experience. I never shirk from danger. I may duck and cover when someone yells “FORE”, but after I get out from under the golf cart, I am as brave as your normal everyday member of the poultry family. So this subject will not escape the microscope.

No offense intended to those who may need one.

The guys with whom I play golf are encyclopedias of ribald golf humor.

Fred Miller, Volumes A through G, is fond of jokes concerning playing with one’s putter in an unending variety of situation comedies.

Big Mur, Volumes H through T, refers oftentimes in his telling of jokes about dropping it in the hole and the number of strokes it takes.

Ray, Volumes U through Z, is constantly cracking wise about the ball washer and scoring difficulties.

These guys are just that…GUYS!

If guys were not playing golf, watching NASCAR races, betting on the playoffs or planning some adrenalin rush that may consist of endangering their lives with the use of chainsaws and bungee cables, they would be thinking or telling jokes about sex.

If you do not recognize this fact, you have been spending too much time watching Greg and Darma reruns.

It is not that we men are horn dogs that cannot think of anything but golf or sex…well, maybe not golf…but we are just … well…GUYS!

Of course, we never actually SEE the professionals snickering at one of their own when he loses his wits in a moment of triumph in sudden death and shouts emphatically, “That’s my best score since Wanda Bouncer!” and pumps his fist in the air.

But we normal run of the mill, everyday duffers don’t make millions in endorsements so we need a little fun and excitement to balance out the cost of those new clubs.

Now, I know that some of us think the recent story about the guys who got together and rented a course for the day, “invited” some pole dancers to perform a special “Flag” dance on the greens, went a little overboard.

What? You haven’t heard about those guys?

A group of male execs rented a course that shall remain nameless but shall go down in the Male Hall of Fame. They had skimpily attired or just plain non-attired young nubilites frolic around the course.

I can just hear how this happened.

(Boardroom)

“Hey Fleemster, hand me another powered doughnut, will you?”

“Sure, Nuckleman…just don’t use the hole for putter practice, if you know what I mean?”

“Fleemster! You are a genius! Let’s call a board of directors meeting on a rented golf course and hire Boom Boom LaBoinker and her Rode Warrior Princesses to caddy for us!”

“But I didn’t say that, Nuckleman.”

Sure you did, didn’t he fellahs?”

(general mumbles of excited agreement) oh…yeah…sure you betcha!”

“At least that’s the way it is going into the minutes, Fleemster.”

So these fellows have a tournament that will be recorded in Penthouse Forums.

Only one thing they forgot. The course had upscale residential housing along each fairway.

Mrs. George Collingwood Stuffinmuffin the Third was watering her prize petunias when Lo and behold, Boom Boom performed her famed naked slide and spilt maneuver on the flag on number four dogleg to the left, par five.

Fortunately, her butler called 911 and the paramedics arrived in time. But they had to drag poor George into the ambulance because Boom Boom performed an encore.

Needless to say, the police had their hands full. Play was suspended and the scorecards were confiscated and put on display in the pro shop.

The course management was embarrassed and had to strenuously search the rules of golf for exactly how to handle the situation.

Order was finally restored when the girls left the premises and they pried George’s driver from his hand.

So, my point, if I still have one, is that these men were just being guys. I know they were sexist, randy goats. I know they at the time, had the combined brain wattage of turnips. I know that they will be vilified and hounded by the Society for the Supremacy of Estrogen.

But they will someday be honored by a plaque on the wall of John Boy’s Barbecue joint and muffler repair shop. After all they are Guys!


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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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