Kill All the Golfers

December 19, 2014

I have to laugh, because I’ve outsmarted even myself. My enemy, my foe, is a human. In order to conquer the human, I have to learn to think like a human. And, whenever possible, to look like one. I’ve gotta get inside this guy’s skin and crawl around for a few days. Who’s the golfer’s ally? His friends. The harmless greenskeeper and the friendly caddy. A varmint will never quit – ever. So you have to fall back on superior intelligence and superior firepower. And that’s all she wrote.

Messing with them is like zen, man. It’s the reason we get up before the sun even shows its face. It’s our game – a ruined fairway here, a twisted ankle there. All designed to get that silly groundskeeper into a strappy shirt at the funny farm. But the real moment – this is the good stuff, so listen close – is that one perfect dig. The one that sits hidden on the green, right next to the cup. You dig that hole juuuuuuust right, and that poor shmuck golfer never knows where his ball went.

It takes guts to dig that hole. Great big gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts. A varmint needs a good drink if he wants to play for keeps, and this is the one. We start with Tallow honey, of course, the Nektar of the gods. Add in a slice of Four Seasons lemon juice. We give the drink some loft with South Indian black tea, off the luckiest tea trees. Tell you what, my fellow varmint: with this drink cooling our furry brows, those stupid caddies in their dumb shack won’t know what hit ’em.

Cinderella story. Outta nowhere. A former meadmaker, now, about to become the Mazer champion. It looks like a mirac… It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole!!!!

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