Many chaps whine about the intrinsic difficulties of hitting a small pock-faced ball into randomly placed gopher holes, but they are apparently blind to the real purpose: Drinking yourself silly while wearing stain-resistant pants. I think of the golf course as an expansive, well-groomed lawn bar. You stake out a nice vista, mix yourself and your lady guest a few libations, and whack a few balls hither and yonder. Why, I think it's so convenient that the management has established 18 holes/stations to upchuck your last cocktail into. And the sand traps are perfect locales to relieve oneself. Just remember to take a cue from the felines and cover up your golf guano.
Usually, I can only muster 5 or 6 holes before succumbing to the charms of Lady Liquor. Upon awakening, I brush off my plaid trousers, pick the grass out of my hair and high-tail it in the clown car (if still operational) to the Clubhouse. I never quite understand the banter in this drinkery. All this yapping about "birdies" and "eagles" and "albatrosses"? Pardonne moi? To infiltrate this charming camaraderie, I pepper my Link-speak™ with liberal applications of bird-related prose: "I sure sunk a Siamese Fireback Pheasant on the 8th!" or "Boy, that Red Collard Woodpecker I got on the 3rd's gonna mess up my handicap!". Suffice to say, the puzzled gentry immediately give me a hardy slap on the back, and buy me a round of drinks. Another day of successful golfing!
Seems someone took a compromising snap of me during one of my mid-game slumbers. Oh my... That was a good round of golf. "Don't mind me. Just play through, Fred!"
Oh yes... I almost forgot. What becomes of my lady friends? I usually forget where I left them, but if found, I try to scrap them off the greens or out of the bushes before the sprinklers get turned on. But usually they stagger back to the Clubhouse under their own power, or slung over the back of some fellow hackers cart. Fore!
My preferred brand of golf britches is, of course, Shemply's. Amazingly deft at resisting even the most tenacious post-binge soilings. I wear my Shemply's, or I wear nothing. And believe me, I've done my fair share of golfing au naturel. Usually because I somehow end up losing my pants while stumbling through the bramble looking for a place to plug in the blender.