There are plenty of distractions on a golf course: Your golf partner clicking around a pocket of tees while you’re lining up a five-footer, for example, or a left to right gale when you, a chronic slicer, are teeing it up. That can be a distraction. Teeing it up on the first hole requiring a long drive over water, while you hear the four-some behind you taking odds-on bets that you’ll plunk it in the lake. That is a super distraction. Or a giant foot print in the bunker where your ball has settled or the golfer in the foursome ahead who takes 4 practice swings on every shot before swinging, those are further distractions. But the biggest distractions in golf by far are the beer wenches.
This is an unfair way for golf courses to make obscene profits at the expense of helpless players. If a course loses twenty grand during a hot, dry summer, they can make it up easily with two beer wenches and a couple of hot weekends.
It’s bad enough that they bring a cart filled with ice cold beer just at the time when you feel like Lawrence of Arabia in the desert scene, but to use beer wenches with short shorts and low cut blouses at such a vulnerable time is simply unsportsman-like conduct. Somebody should throw a flag, or something. Golf, after all, is a genteel game.
Yet, on about the 5th hole, here she comes, a winsome lass with a southern drawl and a pitiful look indicating she has made no sales at all for the day and her coming tuition at Tulane is at stake here.
So you do the right thing and buy everyone in your foursome two beers each, along with hot dogs and Nabs.
When she says, “Thanks y’all. You’re too sweet” and then bends forward to put her cash in what looks like a vault at Chase Manhattan Bank, you ask when she might be coming back around again.
So on the 6th hole, instead of concentrating on the creek and gulley ahead on an easily reachable par 4, you wonder how many beers you should order on the next go round, to make sure the young thing has at least a little spending money at Tulane. And you plunk it in the creek, for a double bogey, but who cares?
“I think I’ll get a round of Sam Adams next time, maybe two.
She’s back on number 11 and prettier than ever. More beers, more double bogies, but hey, it’s just a game.
At number 17, she’s back again, but you’ve depleted all your cash. Where does $150 go these days? Will she take American Express? “Sure, y’all. I’ll be back with your receipt.”
That reminds me. I need to hide that $120 AmEx receipt from my wife when it comes in or I may be facing a bigger distraction yet.
