Golf and The Wife

Subject: A Golf Story

The Wife — “Where the hell have you been? You said you’d be done with golf by noon.”

Husband — “I’m so sorry Honey . . . but you probably don’t want to hear the reason.”

The Wife — “I want the truth, and I want it NOW!”

Husband — “Fine. We finished in under 4 hours; a quick beer in the Clubhouse. I hopped into the car, and would have been here by 12 noon but on the way home, I spotted a girl half our age struggling with a flat tire.

“I changed it in a jiffy, and next she’s offering me money. Of course I refuse it, then she tells me she was headed to the bar at the Sheraton and begs me to stop by so she can buy me a beer. She’s such a sweetie, I said yes.

“Before you know it, one beer turned into three or four, and I guess we were looking pretty good to each other.

“Then she tells me she has a room right there at the Sheraton, less than 50 steps from our table. She suggested we get some privacy while pulling me by the hand.

“Now I’m in her room . . . clothes are flying . . . the talking stopped and we proceeded to have sex in every way imaginable. It must have gone on for hours, because before I know it, the clock says 5:30. I jump up, throw my clothes on, run to the car, and here I am.

“There. You wanted the truth . . . You got it.”

The Wife — “Bullshit! You played 36 holes, didn’t you?”


Mist and Red
Mist and Red


Subject: A Golf Story — The Alternate Version

The Husband — “Where the hell have you been? You said you’d be done with golf by noon.”

Wife — “I’m so sorry Honey . . . but you probably don’t want to hear the reason”

The Husband — “I want the truth, and I want it NOW!”

Wife — “Fine. We finished in under 4 hours; a quick glass of wine in the Clubhouse. I hopped into the car, and would have been here by 12 noon but on the way home, I spotted a man half our age struggling with a flat tire.

“I changed it in a jiffy, and next he’s offering me money. Of course I refuse it, then he tells me he was headed to the bar at the Sheraton and begs me to stop by so he can buy me a glass of wine. He’s such a sweetie, I said yes.

“Before you know it, one glass turned into three or four, and I guess we were looking pretty good to each other.

“Then he tells me he has a room right there at the Sheraton, less than 50 steps from our table. He suggested we get some privacy while pulling me by the hand.

“Now I’m in his room . . . clothes are flying . . . the talking stopped and we proceeded to have sex in every way imaginable. It must have gone on for hours, because before I know it, the clock says 5:30. I jump up, throw my clothes on, run to the car, and here I am.

“There. You wanted the truth . . . You got it.”

The Husband — “Bullshit! You played 36 holes, didn’t you?”

Wandering Thoughts

It’s Saturday evening in SoCal.

I’m watching the Angel – KC game on the boob-tube. It was in the low 80s here today and it’s snowing in Kansas City. I imagine Tom Hanks yelling, “There’s no snowing in baseball!”

I did chores today: dishes, grocery shopping, feeding cats, litterbox duty, helping Charlie move around and fixing her meals and tea, etc. This evening I got her the Subway sandwich, chips and cookies she wanted (along with Jaffa cakes and tins of Danish cookies) and picked myself up some fish and chips, mushy peas and calamari.

As I watch the Angel game Mist is sleeping curled up against my legs and feet and Smoke is grooming himself on the couch to my right. Charlie is in her room watching, and trying to figure out what is really happening in Blade Runner 2049.

And my mind started to wander . . .

I began my teaching career doing student teaching and part-time teaching during the 1971-72 school year. My older students were 13 and 14 years old. That means many of them were born in 1958.

My first students are turning 60 this year.

They, some or even many of them, are now grandparents.

Noooooooooooooo . . . .


Angels won.

Palm Sunday

It was Palm Sunday but because of a sore throat, 5-year-old Johnny stayed home from church with a sitter.

When the family returned home, they were carrying several palm fronds.

Johnny asked them what they were for.

“People held them over Jesus’ head as he walked by,” his father told him.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Johnny fumed, “the one Sunday I don’t go and He shows up.”


Palm Sunday

President’s Day

Several weeks ago I was having coffee and eating breakfast with my teenage Granddaughter. About halfway through our meal I asked her, “What special day is it tomorrow?”

Without skipping a beat she replied, “It’s U.S. President’s Day!”

She’s smart. Then I asked her, “What does that mean?”

I was not ready for what she was about to say.

She replied, “U.S. President’s Day is when he steps out of the White House and sees his shadow, and we have 3 more years of Bull Shit.”

You know, it hurts when hot coffee spurts out your nose.

Some “Violence” Thoughts on an Easter Sunday

No violence here.

‘Tis a beautiful Easter Sunday here in SoCal. There is baseball on the boob-tube; Di is in her sunroom speaking with one of her sisters on the phone (sister is in England); we should be in NorCal with friends but Di lost a tooth early Friday morning and we had to cancel; Mist and Smoke are sleeping on the sofa beside me and I’ve had my second cup of coffee — wondering if I should fix another pot or just a K-cup — and trying to decide what to have for brunch.

I’ve read both papers; checked my email and trolled Facebook — and found some things that spawned a conscious thought or two — yeah, I know dangerous.

State-Sanctioned Violence

There were the usual Easter “He is risen” posts and cartoons and one that was a bit different: Judas, with his 30 pieces of silver saying something to the effect that without him today would be nothing but an ordinary Sunday.

This got me to thinking about what the world would be like without Easter. No Christianity? Probably, . . . without the miracle of the Resurrection Jesus becomes just another itinerant preacher wandering the Roman-occupied Middle East. Nothing to distinguish him from others unnoticed and unremarked upon and lost to human memory.

Jesus was a victim of state-sponsored political murder. Local authorities feared his influence, and the lessening of theirs, and convinced the local Roman government to kill him in the interests keeping the peace.

Death Penalty

Hmmm . . . state-sponsored murder. What would life be like if we had never had a death penalty for the commission of crimes — political or otherwise? Not “no punishment” — just no killing of criminals, and those falsely accused and convicted, by the state.

Think about it.

No crucifixion of Jesus.

Nor the drawing and quartering of William Wallace.

No beheading of Olympe de Gouges.

Nor the hanging of Eva Dugan.

No electrocution of William Kemmler.

Nor the gassing of Burton Abbott.

Yes, I know the arguments for the execution of those who murder others, either singly or in larger numbers; I’ve used and believed in them myself.

Could I, as an individual, put a bullet into the back of the head of a murderer? Throw the switch to his electric-chair? Open the trapdoor to hang him? Open the feed of the IV tube containing the drug to stop his (or her) heart? No, I do not believe that I could.

Could you? Would you if you could?

Could you hire someone else to do it? If we allow our criminal justice system to continue executing those convicted of murder, we are indeed hiring the executioner, if only through our votes and the taxes we pay.

Perhaps, just perhaps, state sanctioned violence in the name of justice is not the answer.

Our penchant for violence

On a related note, I wonder where we learn that violence is the answer to our problems.

Where do we first encounter violence by authority to enforce laws, rules, norms?

In adult life? Does your boss beat you when you make an error or lose a customer?

In school? Does your teacher/counselor/vice-principal swat/spank/cane you when you make a mistake or talk back to them?

As a child, did your mother slap you or take a hairbrush to your bottom; did your father spank you or take a belt to your bottom?

Did this teach you respect, as so many Internet memes would have it? Or did it teach you fear? Or did it teach you to sneak around to get away with whatever it was you wanted to get away with?

I’ll bet the real answer is not the answer we rationalize as adults in the here and now.

What did it teach you?

What does it teach someone who is two or three or five or ten years old when an adult in authority slaps/spanks/paddles them, no matter what the child’s offense?

It teaches the child that the answer is violence.


Companionship, not violence.
Companionship