Fore

Golf is so Wrong, it’s hard for me to be coherent about it.

Once upon a time, I did pen a lengthy and somewhat lucid three-part jihad on the Outrage Of Golf. For one of the many newspapers that lived and died around here. Probably the papered remains, they are down in the Manor basement. Somewhere. Maybe, someday, I’ll run across them. And, maybe, thenbaby, I’ll re-screed the jihad, here.

For the nonce, though: golf, briefly, was devised by bored Scottish sheepherders, casting around for something to do while waiting for their erections to return. At which time they could again commence buggering the sheep.

As Mark Twain observed in this space, a wee while back, penile erectile recovery, it can take some time. And so there were many idle hours, for these sad-sack shriveled-scrotum Scottish men. Out there on the moors. Glumly waiting for peter, to arise again. Buffeted by the wind, encloaked in the mist. Desultorily banging with sticks a small ball. Through the sheepshorn grass. Around sand-sweeps and puddled-places. Into various and sundry gophered holes. Waiting. Waiting. For the rise.

It is a Known Science Fact that Scottish sheepherders inserting their man-sticks into the nether holes of sheep is how incubated syphilis. Pace those the-horror/the-horror people of West Virginia, syphilis marks the nadir of the Scottish contribution to Mankind.

Well. Except for golf.

After all: today there is a cure for syphilis. But there does not seem to be any cure at all for golf.

I once knew a man who worked many years as a groundskeeper on a golf course situated in California’s Central Valley.

This man: he was a good man, a wise man, a feeling man.

And so, the obscenity of his occupation, it hurt—hard—his brain.

To assuage the pain, he first, and for well over a decade, consumed, pretty much every hour, on the hour, mass quantities of the strongest mind-ripping marijuana. The paralyzing effects of this uber-gage transported him to places where few humans go. For instance, once, when, for reasons I can no longer remember, we were all sitting around watching Dumbo, he blurted out: “I am not a human being! I am an elephant!” The man also became obsessed with thewow, man notion that things here on Terra are so of the bungled and the botched because this world was designed and implemented by a “rookie god.” The creature had had no practice—this was the being’s first try—and so s/he bumbled out a planet utterly festooned with mammoth and grievous boners.

Eventually the marijuana could no longer do the job. And so he nestled next into methamphetamine. Which inevitably resulted in the day when he entered that congenital meth Reality in which it is absolutely Necessary to hurl the couch through the vast expanse of the full-length plate-glass window in the living room.

His wife, who did not join him in this Reality, in turn hurled him out of the house. He packed everything he owned into a small station wagon, and went into exile in Los Molinos. This is a small northstate community best known, to Those Who Know, for the Ewell-like family who dwelled for many years out by the town dump. The mother had died eons back, but there remained a father, and also many daughters. And so, each year, at least one of the daughters would come shuffling, somewhat shamefaced, out of the woods, charged with some errand like the family shopping, and bearing a newborn.

Yeehaw.

The reason why his occupation as golf-course greenskeeper so grievously affected this feeling man, so much so that he was eventually compelled to hurl his couch through his living-room window, is because, as he knew, siting a golf course, pretty much anywhere outside of Scotland, is an act of Insanity.

Golf sprang, naturally, from the place of its birth. Flat and/or gently undulating earth, covered with thick grass, watered by the clouds, close-cropped by sheep. Here and there, scattered about, smallish pools of water; bowls of sand. Maybe a spindly stand or two of trees. Some holes.

Golf, therefore, is fine—in its place. A place where sheep steadily crop the grass—as they do to this day on many golf courses in Scotland—and where the elements quite naturally dump down the youve_been_trumped_stillliteral rivers of water required to keep living and thriving the course and the greens.

It’s a normal thing, golf, for that sort of misty moist place.

But, as the photo there to the left demonstrates, golf, even in its native place, has, today, been brutally buggered into a place beyond absurdity, or even the Sane. Unto a shrieking maddened Court of Chaos, requiring that we must needs close our eyes, and then inject, into every available artery and vein, only the most potent of narcotics, so as to rid ourselves of the Pain.

Meanwhile: to place a golf course in the parched desert of the Central Valley of California? Where no rain doth fall for six months out of the year? Where for three rainless months the temperatures hover happily around 100 degrees?

Yes, it is true: there do exist places, even more Insane, than the Central Valley, to place a golf course: say, the Sahara desert, or that region of the bubbling-hot planet Venus scabbed somehow unto Terra, and known as Phoenix, Arizona.

But this was not enough—to know there were golf-siting places even more Unsane than where he did labor—to save the sanity of my couch-hurling companero.

In the three-part jihad that hopefully exists somewhere down there in the Manor basement, my Los Molinos-exiled compadre ululates at some fervent length about the massive mountains of water that must be poured forth to sustain the false creation of his job, the golf course. The streams of mutagenic pesticides and herbicides, ejaculated hither and yon, required to Sustain golf-course plants wanted, and Choke those undesired. Foam, it flew from his lips, as he described, from decades of experience, golf as, at root, a sterile pursuit, of rich rat bastards. Who bang balls around. As, out on the fairways and the greens, they discuss banging dollars around. People he perfectly described as congenitally a-feared of nature: they liked the tamed and tormented fairways and greens, which serenely codified their sadistic majesty; but nature itself, the thing itself, untamed, caused their scrotums to shrivel in Fear. They wanted all such, put to sleep. And that is what they are always and mostly about. In their rich rat bastardness. They are the people of here; of Lew Welch’s wisdom of NYC’s Central Park:

To the north a large green rectangle, Central Park, lies flat, realclean-edged, indented. A skin has been pulled off, a bandage removed, and a small section of the Planet has been allowed to grow.

I think, “They have chosen to do this in order to save their lives.” And then I think, “It is not really a section of the Planet, it is a perfect imitation of a section of the Planet (remembering the zoo). It is how they think it might look.” I am struck by their wisdom. Moved.

All of the above is basically a long introductory shriek to this: the golf courses are returning to Cuba.

Hopefully, the above wander-words have presented some reasonable indication of why golf outside of a realm like the naturally musty misty sheep-shafting realm of Scotland, is Totally Wrong.

Golf is especially Totally Wrong in Cuba.

Cuba, prior to the 1959 revolution, was a beaten and abused redheaded step-child, an orphan of the Caribbean, kicked to shit by snotty sadistic lord-it-all gringos. A very small number of the richest Cubans swallowed their daily bread by fawningly kneeling to fellate the gringos. A still small portion of other Cubans survived as menial servants. The rest of the Cubans could just starve and die and go to hell.

Come the revolution, among the first to go, were the casinos, and the nightclubs, and the golf courses. These, previously, run by gringos, means by which to suck money, and more, off the island. Come the Castros, they were over.

That, as Cuba now, some 55 years later, transitions from the Castros, the transitiongolf courses are coming back, in the realm of the same ol’ same ol’, sucking up dollars from gringos, few or none of which dollars will ever reach a Cuban: this is not a good sign, at all.

But I am not, really, at root, concerned. Too much.

Because the gringos, and their money, are over. And money is all that the gringos have ever really been about. Their stupid fucking money.

Too bad for the gringos, that there is currently five times as much money owed in the world, as there exists actual money. Therefore, the gringo money system is over. It is in a state of collapse. Because nobody can hope to crawl out of such a five-times-debt hole. Not even clever foxy gringos.

The gringos—dumbfucks—haven’t really realized this yet. It is, like, in combat, when a man is shot, as he is running, and is killed, but still runs a few steps farther, not knowing, yet, that he has been killed: that is the place where the gringos are, today, with their money.

Gringo money, it is over. And so, gringos, too, they are over.

It will be close. It always is. But Eros, thus far, on this planet, has always won out. Over Thanatos. And so, here, too, will Eros win out again.

I wish only that the race will be run in time so as not to ruint Cuba. Because Cuba has what gringos do not have. Spirit, magic, honey.

Oggun can be very sad. Once, he was so angry at the way of people, their crimes and lies, that he went into the deep woods, so deep no one could find him, and he was so silent no one could talk to him or could coax him out. Finally, Oshun went after him and walked through the woods and walked honey v athrough the woods until she came to a clearing by a stream. She could feel Oggun carefully watching from behind the trees. She didn’t make the mistake of calling out to him. She began to dance slowly with her arms out like this. Oshun has her own dance, very sexual. When she felt that he was curious and moving closer she still didn’t call his name. She danced a little faster, a little slower, and when he came out of hiding she danced until he was close enough to her to dip her fingers into a gourd of honey hanging from her waist and she smeared the honey on his lips. He had never tasted anything so sweet in his life. She danced and filled her hand with honey and put more honey in his mouth and more honey while she tied him to her with a rope of yellow silk, and led him back into the world.

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7 Responses to “Fore”


  1. 1 Alexa May 19, 2013 at 1:42 am

    i will tell you how magical and beautiful this is when i can dry my eyes. por Dios that hit the sweet spot. gracias, mi dulce.

  2. 3 Julia Rain (the deviant daughter) May 25, 2013 at 12:03 pm

    David would like to point out that, in addition to golf and syphilis, the Scots are also responsible for haggis and the the caber-toss. He also points out that it is not his fault he is half-Scottish. But I’d like to point out that the Scots are also responsible for bagpipes, a highly misunderstood instrument, and my favorite.

    As far as Sports That Make Me Want To Claw My Eyes Out, golf is second only to Nascar. (Google does not recognize Nascar as a word. For once, Google and I are in agreement). For at least golf has scenery, even if it is tamed and tortured. Nascar only has fumes and insanity. But golf is much more destructive to the environment. They both need abolished.

    I’m kind of glad this universe’s God is a rookie. It might make her more receptive to my notes about things like sweat (wrong), tectonic plates (dangerous) and mortality (unnecessary).

    • 4 bluenred May 25, 2013 at 12:18 pm

      Ye gods. I’d forgotten about haggis. Do you know that recent Science Man studies prove conclusively that haggis is the primary reason why extraterrestrial beings refuse to openly contact humans?

      And the caber toss is, I suppose, a particularly Wrong melange of pole-vaulting and shotputting.

      And in America, of course, Scots are responsible for armies of banjo-pickers like that guy in Deliverance.

      The horror. The horror.

      • 5 Julia Rain (the deviant daughter) May 25, 2013 at 1:57 pm

        It is a perfectly reasonable reaction to haggis, to refuse to openly contact any species that could produce it. Let us hope they do not also discover scrapple.

        But bagpipes! Bagpipes are good. And also, they’re loud enough to reach to reach space. So you know the extraterrestrials have heard them.

        • 6 bluenred May 25, 2013 at 5:21 pm

          Yes. They have heard the bagpipes. Particularly have they heard the bagpipes played by those who do not know how to play them. This is why they erected a hyperspace bypass so that travelers no longer have to pass through this quadrant of the galaxy.

          Haggis and scrapple, combined: this is so Wrong as to be actually Demonic, capable of summoning forth Cthulhu.

          • 7 Julia Rain (the deviant daughter) June 18, 2013 at 7:28 pm

            Well, better that than just demolishing us for a hyperspace byway. We lucked out.

            I have no doubt that is true.


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