Friday, May 22, 2009


Nobody's going to get this, so be warned. Okay, a few will, conspirators et al.

Shat, the trust fund 'moker, walked the course with a leering, PS3-addled gait. "Dude, why'd you throw my best putter out the window?" Something in his mien -- the stupid striped golf shirt or the tattered baggy shorts, definitely the backwards ball cap -- made me hate him instantly. We harassed him and his friends, though we were outnumbered, until they disappeared after the second tee.

Earlier, at Randall Oaks, the non-disc golfers got heckled.

"Who do you think you are? Casey Martin? Leg it out!!!"

"Elitists!! Environmental desecrators!! Miss!! Miss!!! Shank it, idiot!"

"You've come a long way, baby. Now you're an a-hole like the rest of them."

83 holes over five courses. En route the dumb kid with the pubescent 'stache got his. "Hey, dude. Shave a few more years before trying to grow a caterpillar on your lip." Misdirected anomy at its finest.

The conspirator gave it to the ladies.

"Ooh. Our first bwap of the day. No gagilfs sighted, despite the warmth of the day."

Even SHE got a kick out of our explanation of a gagilf.

"Tall Gordon Jump."


The hidden lexicon of fools.

Later, during the Tall-headed Woody jam, Shat was immortalized, both the latter day and the Mooshka Shat of ages past whose mother did amazing things at a certain Baptist church in Sycamore.

"Sure is hard to figure."

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