Crop Chopper

Tonight’s golf poem began beautifully enough…

Par
Bogey
Par

Then…

Four shots just to get to the green
Miss ball entirely on second putt
What is that whupp whupp whupping sound?

“Fuck me,” says me to no one, and even if I was enjoying a quiet round of golf with someone that someone would hear nothing over the eggbeater above, “It’s a fucking helicopter crop duster? Are you kidding me?!? I guess the ethanol provision was approved or extended or whatever the fuck cuz these fucking farmers have choppers now! Maybe this means DeKalb is the new Dubai!”

(Found out that just today the EPA denied Texas its waiver for the ethanol mandate so my mindless rant was somewhat timely)

One minute I am enjoying all the serenity that the half-finished, totally shabby South Point Greens have to offer..the next I am in the middle of the Mei Kong fucking delta armed only with my Hybrid, 23 degree Four Iron.

I tried to call for some ground-to-air retaliation but only got D.C. Liar’s voicemail.

I screamed, “Charlie don’t fucking golf!”

…and made my way to the Tiki Hut for a road soda from Knob Creek.