The golf course in our community isn’t a bad course, but it certainly isn’t a good one. Due to some past management problems, the course has kinda gone to pot. Actually, the course “was” much to my liking, because it doesn’t get much play (except for the requisite old guys group all courses seem to have that dominate the morning hours every day) and so, I pretty much had the place to myself in the afternoons—especially when it’s hot out.
I say “was” much to my liking, because, until recently, there was no dress code, and seeing as how I’m not one of those Izod-and-slacks kinda golfers, I really enjoyed the fact I could finish whatever chore I was working on at the house, then, without changing into aforementioned pretentious garb, jump in the cart and go play a few holes. Then, “they” decided to class things up here at the “club”, and instituted a shirts-must-have-collars rule. (I think I have one, but I’ll have to double check.)
Well, naturally, I paid no never-mind, and went about my rat killin’ in my normal fashion. (For you Democrats; rat killin’ is just a humorous term for “stuff I do.”) Well, today, the twenty-something manager of the clubhouse informed me I was to cease said rat killin’, AND, added, if I don’t like their rules, I should find another place to play golf.
I told her that seemed rather harsh, and told her the rule seemed totally out of character for a rather run-down East Texas golf course. She informed me “they” really didn’t give a rat crap about my opinion (Yes, I embellished that a bit, but the sentiment she conveyed was similar), and it was then I bid her a joyous good day and vacated the premises. (For those who DON’T know me, when I bid you a joyous good day, you know you’ve been bid.)
I hope they don’t make us move; I really like our house.