Have you played Golf?  It’s a lot of fun, and quite stressful all at the same time.  Unless your name is posted on one of the leader boards at major golf tournaments, that is.  It’s called “golf” because all of the other four-letter words were taken.  I started playing the game when Tiger Woods started making a name for himself.  A man I worked with at the time was a semi-pro, and “loaned” me one of his old drivers.  The next weekend, I went to the local driving range.  My first drive was what my uncle would have called a “joenailer.”  The ball went straight toward the 300-yard fence.  That was the best shot I have ever made.

I made a hole-in-one on a local course two years later.  I had birdied number five and was set up in the number six tee-box.  Six was a par four dog-leg left.  I knew I could get close to the green with my “Big Bertha,” so I stepped up to the ball.  Something went wrong on my back swing, and when I hit the ball, it took off directly in front of me, toward number five green.  It was one of those shots you hope nobody is around to see.  The power of the driver sent the ball well past the five green, but it hit a pine tree dead center and headed back at me.  It hit the green, bounced high into the air, landed three inches from the cup and rolled in.  A hole-in-one.  I know…from six tee-box to five cup is not how the game is played, but hey…I hit the ball and it went into the cup.  Nobody was watching, and nobody got hurt. 

On the back-nine the same day, my ball landed to the right of the fairway in pine tags after a fairly good drive off the number twelve tee-box.  The tree responsible for those pine tags was directly between the ball and the green, 60 yards away.  I took out my five-iron and decided to just try to get back on the fairway.  Something went wrong on my back swing, (You can’t blame the caddy when you play alone.) and I sliced the ball directly toward the green.  After three bounces, the ball came to rest ten feet away from the cup.  Number twelve was a par four, and I was on the green in two.  An Eagle was very possible.  Have you ever had the “yips?”  It’s a nervous affliction similar to buck fever.  I sunk the ball for a bogey.

I am obviously not a very good golfer.  But there is always one shot that keeps my hopes up.  I think it must be that way with most players.  That one shot out of a regulation par 72 gives us hope that one day we will hit two such shots.

So why do I play Golf if I’m basically wasting green fees?  It’s the competition.  I’m competing against myself and the course.  Even in a foursome, every golfer is on his or her own.  It’s a group sport played individually.  And I’m still trying to beat my last score.  (My lowest score was a 59…on the back nine.)

I did find a good way to reduce my score, though.  After the fourth lie, I pick up the ball and move to the next tee-box.  See ya at the nineteenth hole.

All of these accounts are true.  I know, because I experienced them myself.  I used to work in automotive parts, and one of my responsibilities was answering the phone.  Now, you may have gotten some phone calls that made you scratch your head, but did you ever want to laugh out loud, or look around to see if Rod Serling was watching?  Keep in mind that none of these instances are fiction.  They are all true…

A man called saying that he had been in an accident and wanted prices for some front-end parts.  He gave me a list; headlights, front bumper cover, hood, fenders, and…”that main piece of glass up front.  I’m not sure what you call it.  The windshield wipers go back and forth on it.”  To which I replied, “That would be the windshield.”

A man called to get a price on a speedometer cable for his ’91 Accord.  That model Accord does not have a speedometer cable, it has a speed sensor mounted on the transmission that sends a signal to the electronic dash unit.  So I said, “Sir, that car doesn’t have a speedometer cable.”  He turned to his buddy and said, “This fellow said your Accord don’t have a cable.”  I heard his buddy say, “Well no wonder the speedometer don’t work.”

When I heard the man say that he was rebuilding his engine, I started to see dollar signs.  I asked, “What parts do you need?”  He said, “Do you have any used head gaskets?” 

A man asked for a “key solenoid.”  After a five-second pause to figure out what he was asking for, I finally said, “A what?”  “You know. That slot you put the key in to start the car.”  (Ignition switch.)

A Soldier called long-distance from Germany, explained that he had bought his car at my dealership and asked about the windshield wipers.  “Here in Germany, they only sell by length, not by application.  Can you tell me how long the blades are on my car?”  To which I replied, “Sir?  Do you have a ruler?”

Long before electronic keys were introduced to the market, a man came to my counter with the key to his ’79 Civic.  He held it up and said, “Can you cut me a new key?  This one won’t start the car anymore.”

A man at the counter explained that the Corvette he had just bought from us wasn’t idling right.  Then he put the four-barrel carburetor on the counter and asked if I could adjust it to make it run better.

A man called and asked about the tires on his car.  “I bought it from you.  What size are my tires?”  I said, “Sir, the tire size is indicated on the sticker on the door, and in your owner’s manual.”  To which he replied, “There’s a lot of crap in the owner’s manual.”  And hung up.

A man bought a headlight for his car.  Two days later, he came back demanding his money back.  “The headlight you sold me made the other headlight blow out.”

A man came to the counter to get brakes for his Accord.  “Your service department wants too much to put these on.  I’ll do it myself.”  The following week, his car was towed in.  He had installed the pads backwards.  Now he needed pads and rotors.  I saw him sitting in our customer lounge.  I didn’t say anything.

I am sure you have moved at least once.  I certainly have.  I have moved from town to town, and from state to state.  I even moved across the street one time.  (The rental unit was larger than the one I was renting.)  So I understand that moving can be, and usually is, an experience to be looked upon with mixed emotions.

First, there is the emotion of leaving your old, familiar location.  I won’t say whether it is one of joy or sorrow, because it depends on the circumstances of the move.  Then there is the arrival at the new location, again, either joy or sorrow.  But one thing is constant…”This is the last time we’re moving.”

I have moved so often that I am sure I have misplaced and forgotten belongings in at least two states.  I have had so many yard sales that I get up every morning at 4:30 and go straight to the garage.  In one of my moves, I found something that I hadn’t seen in twelve years, and I had moved three times within those twelve years.

I have found “things.”  Some of these “things” can be described with, “I was wondering where that thing was,” and some with, “Where did we get that thing?”  And then there’s “What in the world…?”

People accumulate so much stuff, and collect so much clutter, it’s probably a good thing to move occasionally.  It gives you a chance to really “clean house.”  It gives you a chance to meet new people, visit new surroundings, and for some people, make a better impression on the neighbors than they did the last time they moved.

Well, in just a couple more months, my wife and I will be moving again.  This time we’re moving to Alabama.  And this time will be the last time we’re moving.  Period.  (I’ve put my foot down this time.)

Quit laughing.

I came home the other morning, after a twelve-hour night shift, and as usual, my cat “Pistol” greeted me at the door.  I picked him up and gave him a hug, something he appreciates.  (As much as a cat can appreciate anything.)  When I put him down, he went to his bed and looked up at me.  He knows that my next move is down the hall toward the bedroom.

My cat doesn’t have any toys.  I bought him a toy when he was a kitten.  It was an “action” toy, guaranteed by the manufacturer to “please and delight” any cat, and provide hours of fun.  It was a simple little device.  There was a 6x2-inch platform, with a motorized 6-inch rod coming out of the center, to which a string and ping-pong sized ball were attached.  When the switched was turned on, the stick would turn slowly, dragging the ball in a circle.  Small lights would light up in a random pattern.

I installed the batteries, set it on the floor and turned it on.  Pistol ran.  I found him two days later sneaking toward his food dish in a low crouching crawl similar to the tigers you see on NatGeo.  His tail was straight behind him and his ears were twisting like individual radar antennas.  It seemed that every muscle in his body was ready to explode at a second's notice.  That was the last time I tortured him with a “please and delight.”

Pistol is not afraid of mice.  I really believe that if mice could talk, they would have a nickname for Pistol.  “Chuck Norris.”  I have seen Pistol run down the hallway at full tilt because something squeaked in the closet at the end of the hall.  Then way after “the last minute,” put on the brakes and hit the closet door at the same time.  (I think the mice do that on purpose.  I’m sure they have a cheering section on the top shelf.)

Sure.  I could get rid of the mice.  But the way I see it, putting poison down could end up poisoning Pistol if he caught a disabled mouse.  Traps are gory and could turn up missing if they only catch a foot or tail.  And besides…it’s the only way Pistol gets any exercise.  He won’t come near anything I put on the floor, except his food dish.

In my rather humble opinion, there is one word in the English language that stands head-and-shoulders above all others as the funniest word of all.  It is the funniest sounding, and at the same time, applies its definition so acutely to the subject, that the subject then becomes a laughing matter.  It can be said in a variety of ways, further deepening and intensifying its definition.

The word is, of course, “stupid.”  Think about it for a second.  Stooopid.  I had a friend several years ago who was a walking definition of the word.  In fact, it was joked that if you looked up “stupid” in the dictionary, there would be a picture of my friend, with the warning, “Do Not Imitate!” 

Great-Gran once told me, “There is a difference between ignorant and stupid.  Ignorant is not having enough information to make a logical decision.    Stupid is having the information and not following it, thereby making the wrong decision, which usually gets somebody hurt.”  My friend, the walking testament to the word, knew full well that his old car could not make it to the R/R Crossing before the train got there, but…

In the movie Forest Gump, Sally Field (who played Forest’s mother, and who also had my heart when she played The Flying Nun back in the late 60’s) attempted to make her slow-witted son feel better by saying “Stupid is as stupid does.”  (Not sure how that would work.)

I can understand ignorance when it comes to politics.  There is a lot of information about a lot of candidates running for one office.  When I vote, I would rather be counted with the ignorant, not the stupid.  What about you?  “Stupid” really is a funny word.