One year, twelve of us golfers were in Myrtle Beach, and all of us were having a great time.  On the second evening after golf that day and dinner at Greg Norman’s Steakhouse, we decided to all head to one of the local strip clubs for some entertainment and beer, or at least eleven of us did.  One of the fellows, Stanley, was dead tired and just wanted to go back to the condo to get some needed rest for the next day’s round of 36 holes at the very tough and demanding Tidewater golf course.  So, the rest of us headed to one of the local jiggle joints just to do some research on the local habitat and see if any of the pole dancers could qualify for Dancing with the Stars

 Around 10 p.m. that evening, Stan’s condo phone started ringing, while he was watching the local weather channel for the next day’s weather forecast.  Stan answered the phone and it happened to be the wife of Jerome wanting to speak to her husband.  Jerome’s wife is a devout Bible thumping born-again fundamentalist Christian who undoubtedly would not have approved of Jerome going to a strip club.  So, Stan being extremely astute and very protective of the Guy’s Code of Silence and Total Ignorance said to her that Jerome was still out at dinner with the rest of the fellows.

 Jerome’s wife being a sharp woman quickly responded by saying, “Well then, how come you’re not at dinner with all of the fellows?”

 Stan being the sharp local junior college law professor responded quickly by saying, “You know, I just wasn’t feeling very well.  So, I decided to take a pass on dinner with the guys and I just grabbed a quick salad at one of the fast food places, then I swallowed some Imodium tablets and came back here to get some needed rest for tomorrow’s golf games.  When Jerome gets back to the condo, I’ll tell him that you called.”

 When all of us went to the strip club that evening, we all turned off our cell phones, since you would not be able to hear or speak with anyone with all the loud music and flashing strobe lights going on anyway.  It’s pretty hard just to have a conversation among ourselves in those clubs, but then again we really didn’t come here to talk. We came to view the artistic style and value of pole dancing.   Hell, we all thought it would be like going to the Joffrey Ballet. Wrong.

 Around 11 p.m., Stan’s condo phone started ringing again and this time the ringing woke him up from his sleep.  Stan answered it only to find that again it was Jerome’s wife.  And, she again asked Stan where Jerome was and why Jerome hadn’t called her back yet.  Stan again told her that the fellows obviously had not returned from dinner and that he’d leave another note for Jerome on his pillow, next to the little piece of chocolate, to call home when he comes in.

 Jerome’s wife, now being a bit annoyed and slightly irritated with Stan, wanted to know where the fellows went to dinner and at what precise time did they leave for the restaurant.  Stan, also really annoyed as well, said that he didn’t know since he did not go with them.  She now asked Stan why Jerome had not answered his cell phone calls, which Stan said, “I have no idea why.  Maybe it’s just broken or no reception or maybe he changed his cell number and did not give you the new one.”

 Back to sleep again, only to be wakened up at midnight again by the sound of the damn ringing telephone, Stan reluctantly answered it after 14 rings and again it was Jerome’s wife wanting to speak to her husband.  Once again, Stan said that the fellows still had not yet returned from dinner.

 Jerome’s wife not accepting any of Stan’s BS stories, demanded to know just exactly where he was.  Stan finally broke down saying that we had previously discussed going to the midnight Mass somewhere in the county to get some much sought after religion before the big golf games in the morning.  She didn’t buy it at all . . . not a funny thing to be telling a reborn Christian woman with her Gideon Bible sitting on her lap.

 The eleven of us finally rolled in around 12:30 in the morning, only to see three rather large notes in large block letters lying on the counter, telling Jerome he’d better call home immediately to talk with his frantic wife because she was totally pissed that he had not made even one call to her all day long.

 Stan finally took the phone off the hook so he could get some sleep, “Without (as he phrased it) that damn phone ringing every hour in my ear.”

 Needless to say, Jerome did finally call home that evening and just blamed the late night on the rest of us, saying, “They dragged me unwillingly into one of those sinful, disgusting strip clubs, without my knowledge on where they were taking me”. He made the mistake of trying to joke with his wife by saying that he completely thought we were all taking him to one of those all night Bible study classes that the Baptists in the South have.  She didn’t buy that one either.

 Jerome was ordered to get on the next plane and come home for total redemption and salvation of his pitiful soul, or to just call home every two hours and recite a short prayer with his wife for the remainder of the trip.  He elected to call home every two hours. “Prayer is good for the soul and the putter,” he kept telling us.  He’s now studying to be a deacon in his local church to make up for all of his sinful and shameful ways of the flesh.  Moreover, “Glory be, hallelujah, and PTL (praise the Lord)”, are now stamped on all his golf balls.

This is the story of one of my friends, Animal Doc, who happens to be a very prominent and well-respected veterinarian in the Peoria area. He went skiing in Vail several years ago with two of his college buddies.  As he tells it, Two-Ton Tommy, who hails from Horseshoe Bend, Arkansas, was a very big man at that time, ranging in the neighborhood of that of a young bull pushing close to 400 pounds on the Chicago stockyard beef scales.  The other fellow, Double Black Diamond, comes from Flathead County in Montana, being one of the best skiers who almost qualified for a spot on the Olympics, in the downhill.

 The three of them were all going out for a couple of drinks after a terrific day on the freshly powdered slopes of Vail, which had a strong base of over 64″ of the finest snow that mid-March could produce with the temperatures hovering around 45°.  There were bright sunny conditions with young snow bunnies either skiing or posing in their bikinis and they were all out en masse.  These three disco skiing buddies were in seventh heaven.  They had such a great day of free riding that they decided to celebrate that evening by going to Manky’s Hot Wings for some 5 -11 styled, spiced up buffalo hot wings and drinks.

 Animal Doc told me, that Two-Ton Tommy ordered the hottest spiced-up wings that one could possibly order.  They were so hot, that you thought they came from Three Mile Island.  They each had three orders, about one pound per order.  When the waitress brought the third basket of wings to the table, Two-Ton asked her if she had anything that was illegally hot that he could add to the last basket of wings.  She told them that she had this special blend that only the local rippers would add to their wings, stating that it has six skulls and cross bones on the label.  Two-Ton Tommy said to bring it on, a very, very big mistake.

 Madeline, the waitress, brought them this special blend, just as Two-Ton Tommy had requested.  Animal Doc suggested that Tommy put some on his fingertips first to try it before he shook it all over his wings.  Well, Two-Ton Tommy, not being very delicate and having the hands and grace of a small hippo, happened to shake out about a tablespoon on all five of his fingers on his right hand.  He then put the taste to his lips and nothing happened, so he decided to spread the sauce on all of his wings.  For several minutes, there was no reaction as Tommy ate his highly seasoned super hot wings.  Then, Blammo!!  It was a delayed reaction; it hit him hard, just like those crash dummies in a car that we see smashing into a solid wall at 30 mph.  He broke out into such a severe sweat that his forehead was dripping water as if he just stepped out of the shower.

 Two-Ton Tommy grabbed the pitcher of ice-cold water from the table, pulling out at least six ice cubes and jamming them into his mouth.  It didn’t work. He got up fast and ran into the men’s room.  While in the men’s room, he had to piss rather badly, so with the ice cubes still in his mouth, he moved over to the urinal and started to relieve himself by grabbing his beef bayonet with his right hand, which is where he had spilled the 5-11 special blended hot sauce.  Relief was just a handshake away, dispensing of the five draught brews.

 Finally, he returned to the table, saying that he was not feeling very well and could they please all go home.  Animal Doc and Double Black Diamond said sure, since they were very tired from the day of skiing and were also stuffed from the three orders of hot wings and the local draughts that they ordered and consumed.  They paid their bill and headed out of the diner.

 As they were driving back to their Alpine ski lodge, it began to hit Two-Ton Tommy extremely hard.  The towering inferno was now between his legs because his penis was now on fire approaching the 2300° meltdown that would inflict radiation upon all those within a 15-mile radius.  He yelled at the other two to pull over at the McDonald’s that he spotted about a half a block ahead.  They pulled into Mackey D’s.  Two-Ton Tommy jumped out of the car and ran into the men’s room.  He proceeded to drop his drawers at the washbasin, leaned over and stuck his baloney pony under the faucet with ice-cold water running all over him as he desperately tried to cool himself down.  Meanwhile, Animal Doc and Double Black Diamond went to the counter and ordered some ice cream cones for all three of them.

 Two-Ton Tommy was doing the Niagara Falls on his magic wand when another man entered the john.   Upon seeing Tommy butt naked giving himself a washing with the look of complete sexual gratification, the customer yelled at him, saying that he was some sort of perverted sexual deviate and he was going to call the local cops on him for indecent exposure.  Two-Ton Tommy immediately pulled up his checkered Hanes boxers and Levis so fast, that he buckled and zipped them all under three seconds, as he fled out of the john still in excruciating pain.   He was desperate to get out of Dodge quickly to avoid arrest on only their second day ever in Vail.

 The other two were already in the car waiting for Two-Ton Tommy, while enjoying their ice-cream cones.  Tommy jumped into the back seat and told them to get the car started and pull out of the parking lot before the local peelers came.  They had no idea what Tommy was talking about, but they saw the fear of fright on his face, so they started the car and peeled out of the parking lot.

 As they drove away, Animal Doc turned around and handed back the extra ice-cream cone to Two-Ton Tommy thinking that his mouth was still on fire.  Au contraire, Two-Ton unbuckled his pants, zipped down the zipper and proceeded to jam the ice cream directly into the family jewels.  It seemed to work.   Animal Doc not only saw, but also heard the hissing sound of steam, as something very hot was being cooled down by something very cold.  It was a nuclear reactor cool down.  The downside was that it made such a filthy mess in the backseat, they had to pay the rental car company extra bucks to clean up the sticky spilled ice cream in the rear seat.

 Two-Ton Tommy, after that experience, figured out that he had better go on the TV show, “The Biggest Loser”, to see if he could not only lose weight, but also change his eating habits.  Tommy wasn’t the final winner, but he did get his weight down to a respectable 190 pounds on his own on a large 6’2″ frame.

 Animal Doc and Double Black Diamond never asked Two-Ton Tommy to go skiing with them again, although Tommy had told them that he swore off any and all types of hot wings.  To this day he has never broken that vow.  Two-Ton Tommy’s former favorite quote from Forrest Gump,   “Momma always says, put Tabasco sauce on everything you eat; that way, you can eat very cheap,” has now gone to the Arkansas landfill, along with the 210 pounds that he lost.

 Tightwad Terry decided to go with us on a trip to Scotland.  As before, on all of our golf trips we had everyone send PA Paul, a check for the skins, and for the golf game betting; generally $10 for a daily skins and $30 for the daily golf game.  Each of us then sent PA a check for $440 for the 11 rounds of golf about two or three weeks prior to the golf trip.  PA Paul had received everyone’s check except for Tightwad Terry.

 Tightwad (or TW as we called him) Terry is one of the most successful corporate lawyers in Peoria, and therefore, has almost as much money and wealth as Warren Buffett.  The only difference is that Mr. Buffett spends his money, whereas, TW Terry hoards his.

 We were all sitting around; the American Airlines gate at O’Hare international Airport, waiting to board our flight to Glasgow, Scotland. PA Paul approached TW Terry and asked him if he had mailed his check for the $440 entry fee because PA had not received it to date.  TW responded by saying that he had forgotten to, but as soon as we land in Scotland he will immediately cash in some of his Gold American Express travelers checks, and then promptly pay PA.

 When we landed at the Glasgow airport, we retrieved our luggage, our golf bags and then headed out of the baggage claim area straight to our rental vans, beginning a week of marvelous golf in Scotland.  Our first round of golf was at the Westerwood Golf Course in Glasgow that afternoon.  It was only about an hour or so after we had arrived in Scotland that we were now teeing it up.  We played three best balls of four for that round in which Terry was on the winning team, shooting a solid 84 on a 10 handicap, which was simply amazing after just getting off of an overseas bumpy flight in economy class for the last 8½ hours.

 The next day, we were off to play both the St. Andrews Old and New Courses.  We had bagged the New Course after several holes and waited in the clubhouse until our tee time for the Old Course.  The game on the Old Course was “mono y mono”, again. TW Terry won that game, and he was now two for two in the win column.  On the third day, we played the famous Muirfield Golf Club in the morning and Gullane #1 in the afternoon.  Again, TW was on both winning teams.  TW Terry was stacking up his winnings, higher than IHOP’s flapjacks on a Super Bowl Sunday, but he still had not cashed any of his Gold American Express traveler’s checks to cover the betting.  PA Paul and I would ask TW Terry if he planned on going to one of Scotland’s banks that we kept seeing by all the golf courses or if he would just cash some of those travelers’ checks at the hotel where we were lodging.  TW informed us that he could not go to a bank, since it was a Scottish bank holiday.  We had no idea if he was correct or not.  He then advised us, that since the exchange rates in the hotels were not in his favor, we would therefore have to wait another day or two before he would be able to pay PA his entry fee.

 By the golfer’s gambling creed, generally, if you’re winning big, it’s customary and polite to pick up a round or two of beers at lunch for the group.  TW Terry was winning Boston Blackie big, but was not doing this.  He decided that he was going to be on an alcohol free trip and was just going to drink only water the whole time, and it wasn’t even Lent.  On the fourth day, again, TW was on both of the winning teams and was accumulating not only the daily winnings, but he was also winning skins like crazy.  As a point of interest, PA Paul keeps track of the daily winnings and daily skins, but does not pay out until we all come home.  Generally, you will receive a check for your winnings and a summary sheet of the rounds of golf about two or three weeks after we come home.

 Keep in mind that all of us are using caddies on all the golf courses that we are playing in Scotland, except for TW Terry.  He elected to use the trolley (a pull cart) for 2 Euros per round, rather than pay for a caddie.  The only problem that this presented was that although he did not have his own caddie, he used the caddies in all of his foursomes for every round.   He’d weasel out information from them, such as reading his putts on each hole, the club selection for a shot, and just general information of the golf course for every hole that only the local caddies would know.  It was not only bad enough that he used everyone’s caddie, but at the end of the round when it would be time to pony up to tip the caddies, TW Terry could not be found anywhere.  And, if someone had found him hiding in the water closet, he would tell him that he would not be able to participate in tipping.  His explanation was that he would not contribute towards the caddies tip, because he did not personally hire them, and therefore, felt no responsibility to tip them.  Plus, he only had those travelers check with him, never any cash.  How convenient and slick was that!

 It really hit the fan, one day at lunch, when TW Terry was having his free glass of water.  The Dew asked the fellows at his table if anyone wanted a beer with their lunch and that he would be more than happy to buy a drink for one or all.  TW Terry headed to the restrooms at that point not uttering a word at the table.  On his return from the men’s water closet, he passed by the Dew and myself at the bar where we were getting all the beers to bring back to the table.  TW very quietly leaned over the bar and said to the bartender in a very low whisper, so we could not hear, to add a very large tumbler size glass of KJ Merlot wine.  I think I heard him say to the bartender to “super size it”, along with the beers and to put that cost on the Dew’s tab, since he had been the one who offered to pay.  TW Terry would not buy his own glass of wine, but would definitely order a colossal size glass of wine if someone else were picking up the tab.  Needless to say, everyone was excessively and super size pissed at TW.

 That afternoon, TW Terry shot a smooth 74; just two over par at Prestwick golf course by using the aid of Dew’s and my caddie exclusively.  Billy was our caddie, who was two-bagging it for the loop that day.  Billy was 50+ years-old, toothless, with a three to four day-old scruffy beard stubble on his face and sad sunken bloodshot eyes.  He must have weighed about 140 pounds soaking wet, on a thin-boned 5’5″ frame, and had a pint of single malt scotch half sticking out of his back left pocket.  His red nose could stop traffic.  Billy had that homeless look about him.  However, Billy knew this golf course and he knew how to play it.  He was a charitable sort and offered up his pint to us, which we declined after considering his dental condition.

 After we finished the round at Prestwick, we again asked TW Terry if he wanted to participate in the tip for Billy, since he had really helped TW shoot the best round of golf that day.  Again, TW Terry declined saying that he still had only the travelers’ checks on him and still no cash.  Terry said that the most Christian thing we all could do was not to contribute to Billy’s drinking problem. TW Terry that moment was having an epiphany and had tuned to religion to be frugal.

 That evening at dinner, we all confronted TW Terry and told him that we needed his $440 entry fee, NOW.  Terry said, “Let me give you fine lads my marker for $440, since, I have been winning every day.  I’m definitely winning more than the $440 that I owe to the pot, so my marker will be more than it’s worth.”

We all just looked in total disbelief and said, “No way in Hell are you giving us your marker!!!  It just ain’t happening!  Now, go over to the front desk and cash those GD Gold American Express checks from WW ll.  Give PA Paul the necessary $440 and screw the current exchange rate. You are going to lose a total of $1.57 on the transaction. You have been dodging this for four days now. Either pay up or don’t bother to play golf the rest of the trip with us!!!”

 TW Terry was stunned, mortified, totally taken back, but still he had the largest gonads to again ask us one more time, “Are you sure I can’t just give you my marker? It’ll be good.”

 Everyone exploded in loud unison, “No f–king way!!!”

 Tightwad Terry finally got up and cashed those old musty badly wrinkled travelers’ checks, thereby, giving PA Paul the $440 due.  He still did not pay for any caddies or caddies tips, nor did he buy a round of drinks until our very last night at the Glen Eagles Resort, where he finally broke down and bought two of the least expensive bottles of red merlot wine for the table that he could find.

 TW Terry would always quote Catherine Pulsifer, the famous glass artist, by saying, “Being frugal does not mean being cheap! It means being more economical and avoiding waste, (like not paying you chumps).”

Twelve of us golfers, along with five wives, and some kids, decided to go to Ireland and play some of the best courses that the Emerald Island had to offer.  One of my main concerns was the IRA bombings that were still taken place in Northern Ireland at that time.  Since, I was completely arranging the whole trip; I was concerned that we had to have a bus driver for the guys that would be able to move us from course to course, from accommodation to accommodation with no incidents happening.  I was also arranging for a separate driver for one of the wives and her kids.  The other wives were totally on their own, having a large rental vehicle to tour around in Ireland at their own leisure.

 I was looking at hiring someone that was IRA connected, figuring that would be our safest bet.  The company that I work for is totally made up of American Irish Catholics, so I started asking several of the Irish managers if they had any relatives back in Ireland that were IRA connected, of course, everyone at my company denied any ties to the IRA.  I did finally end up with a couple of names of tour drivers in Ireland, so I called them both up on the phone and personally interviewed each of them.

 The first fellow that I talked with, Michael Collins just did not make me feel very comfortable or convinced me that he would make sure that we all would remain out of harms way.  The second fellow on the other hand that I talked with convinced me that I should absolutely hire him, although he flatly denied any knowledge or relationship with the IRA.  Something deep inside of me kept saying to stay with this guy, Donald O’Shea, he’s connected somehow, and I was right.

 Donald O’Shea and his partner Jim O’Leary helped us get on Ballybunion’s Old Course, which I was unable to do at the time.  I had arranged the entire tee times at twelve of the top rated Irish courses in Ireland, plus three of the top rated courses in Northern Ireland, but I was not able to book Ballybunion Old Course when I wanted it.  So, I booked the Ballybunion New Course. It was going to be a trip of a lifetime.

 I told Donald of all the courses that we were playing, the castles and manors that we were booked to stay at, all I needed him to do was to drive us from place to place quickly and safely.  He agreed, although in his own Irish brogue he said to me, “Ballynunion New Course is a piece of crap, you want to play the Old Course.”  I told him that I could not get on the Old Course on the day that I wanted.  He told me not to worry, he would arrange it and son of a gun, he did it (this guy had connections).

 When we were driving around in the bus, Donald finally did break down and started disclosing information about the IRA, after we all kept hammering him constantly with questions about the IRA.  He started telling us that his parents and grandparents were all IRA connected, all having dead at the hands of the Brit’s.  He swore to us that he was not IRA, but rather just a small golf tour operator, who never commercially advertised his business.  None of us believed that for one moment.  He would only talk about the Catholic and Protestant strained and segregated relations in the bus.  Outside of the bus no politics were ever discussed at all, that was his only rule, which we all honored.  We learned a hell of a lot about the IRA and the Brits.  Hell, Donald even took us to two allegedly active IRA pubs, one in County Cork called, The Black & Tan Arms, and the other on our way to Dublin called, Dead Man’s Wooden Leg.  Again, the rule was no politics to be discussed or spoken in either pub, just drink the Pint (Guinness), throw some darts and talk about golf.  Both pubs were very old, very dark inside, with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, the smell of stagnate brew permeating from  the floor boards and the local patrons sipping the pint, while eyeing us indiscriminately.

 We finally crossed over from Ireland into Northern Ireland one bright sunny warm afternoon, after our round at the Royal Dublin golf course.  You could not help but immediately notice the change in the quality of the roads.  You went from a very narrow two-lane road with no shoulder on either side of the road, to an extremely wide two-lane newly paved blacktop highway with same quality of paving on either side of the shoulders.  When we crossed this demarcation line between Ireland and Northern Ireland, Donald told all of us in the bus to put our beers down, look out the buses windows on either side, both to the east and to the west.  You could barely see them, but there about 1 mile from the bus in either direction, were two British Army Lynx helicopters hovering about 100 yards off the ground, just ready to descend upon us.

 Donald said that those Brit’s were now scrutinizing us with their long range surveillance lens’s, determining whether or not we were moving illegal arms or bombs into Northern Ireland.  He said that if we were not stopped within a mile or two of the border, we were considered safe and no threat to the British people or army.  We were not stopped.  Hell, we are just a bunch of yahoo golfers from Peoria, not gun toting smuggling IRA activists.

 We continued straight to the Portstewart golf course in Northern Ireland, teeing off around mid afternoon.  Unbeknownst to us, there was a bombing that took place that afternoon just outside of Belfast in Omagh, where 29 people dead and some 220 were injured.  It was the very last major bombing that the IRA did before both sides finally agreed to a mutual peace treaty.

 The wives were not as fortunate as us, since they crossed the border that day in mid afternoon, just hours after the bombing; they had to go through check point Charlie at the border, which the British army immediately set up.  The wives had to get out of the cars, show their passports, open up the trunk of the cars, open up their entire luggage and withstand verbal and a no nonsense dialogue with the soldiers with machine guns pointing directly at them and their cars.  There was no joking around or pleasant conversation being spent with these soldiers; it was a very serious and tense atmosphere.  They finally were allowed to pass through, were everyone of them were thoroughly unnerved by the events that took place that day.

 We stayed about 20 miles west of Belfast in a small country estate, called the Dunadry Hotel, which was about 40 miles away from where the bombing actually took place.  Several of the wives wanted to fly back to the states that evening.  I kept telling the ladies that the IRA doesn’t bomb two days in a row and that our drivers assured us that we were completely safe.  Donald had promised us all that if anything was going to happen on our trip, we would not be in harms way.  Once again, he was correct and somehow well informed.

 This country manor estate had a Scottish wedding going on that evening.  My wife and two of the other wives saw several men wearing Scottish kilts and asked one of them what they wore underneath the kilt.  They found out rather quickly, as he lifted up his kilt to reveal that there was absolutely nothing under the garment, as we say here in the states, those fellows were going commando, and he was very proud of his Johnson, or should I say his O’Johnson.

 We had a great time that evening, eating, drinking, and then playing golf the very next day at Royal Portrush, staying one more evening in that hotel and then driving back to Dublin to catch our flight back home, all safe and sound.  As the Irish say, “May ye live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent.”  Or, “May ye be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you’re dead!”

 Dr. Derm and I decided one year to play golf in Scotland. We had flown into the Glasgow airport. Once we retrieved our golf bags, our luggage, we headed straight over to the car rental area to pick up our car, which had the steering wheel on the wrong side. When Dr. Derm had mastered – first, the shifting by using his left hand, then the gas pedal with his left foot, the brake pad with his right foot, then finally getting somewhat comfortable about driving from the passenger side, all of which took about 1 ½ hours to master - we were finally off  heading towards North Berwick. We were now driving on the M8 heading east to the Marine Hotel in North Berwick, with all that traffic being mirror reversed making me close my eyes and grip the door handle very tightly. When we arrived at the Marine Hotel, we checked in, went to our separate rooms to unpack our suitcases and then reunited in the main lobby area. Since it was only 3 PM, we decided to drive to the town of Dunbar to see if we could play 18 holes of golf before dinner. Sure enough, we were able to play the Dunbar golf course. We checked in with the pro, paid the daily fee and proceeded to the first tee which was right in front of the pro shop.

 Unbeknownst to us you are supposed to tee off by the small square box placed on the teeing area. Dr. Derm and I did not know this, so we went to the very back of the tee box to play the course from the tips. We thought it was strange that we could not find any tee markers at the back of the teeing area figuring that the Scots were just too cheap to buy additional tee markers. Regardless, we teed it up and we are now off playing our very first round in Scotland.

 After putting out on the fourth hole, we noticed a lone Scotsman dressed rather formally in tan knickers, high green Argyle socks, a white dress shirt, a rep tie, wearing a family dark plaid sweater, sporting a plaid tartan tammie Scottish cap playing extremely fast behind us. We figured he wanted to play through us to get home quickly or to go hit the pubs early. Boy, were we wrong.

 We teed off again from the very back of the next tee box and just started to head down the fifth fairway, when this local Scotsman yelled at us to stop, which we did. He came up to us and proceeded to tell us that he was the club’s secretary and he wanted to know just who gave us permission to tee it up from the tips. Dr. Derm and I just looked at each other and I finally said, “No one. We just wanted to play this course from the tips and since there was no one in front of us and only you, who just came up rather quickly behind us, we didn’t think that it would be a problem for anyone.”

 Well, the club’s secretary said that we could not do that. He told us that the only time you can play from the back tees, is if there was an inter-club competition going on. Since, we were not in an inter-club competition we had to go to the front of the teeing area where the small square box was located and that’s where we were supposed to be teeing it up from. He was very polite, dignified, authoritative, smartly dressed, and extremely arrogant, explaining that since no one advised us where to tee off from, he would now allow us to remain on the golf course. And then he said, “You two lads will now be playing the remainder of the holes from the correct tee markers or I will have to personally come back and shoot you both,” which we did.

 That Scotsman was the most top drawer dresser that we ever met on that trip. I asked him if I could take his photo, but he would have absolutely none of that. With that, he was off as quickly as he came up upon us. I believe he thought that we were just a couple of dumb-ass Americans that he wanted no part of. I think he thought that we were carrying fleas or some other social disease that he might contract if he got too close to us.

 That evening after dinner and some local pints of their best suds at the Marine Hotel, we decided to turn in around 10:30 PM. We both set our alarm clocks for 6:30 AM, thereby giving us enough time for a Scottish breakfast in the morning and then giving us ample time to head to the North Berwick golf course for our 8 AM tee off.

 We both left our window drapes wide open, so that the morning sunlight would come dancing in on us, which it did. With the drapes wide open, both of us had a spectacular view of the third fairway. The North Sea hugged the same fairway with large waves of dark green ocean crushing upon the rocks and spilling onto the fairway. The sunlight was extremely bright and warm in early June as it danced across my face waking me up very abruptly. In a complete panic, I bolted out of the bed thinking that I had missed the tee time. I ran to take a fast shower, brushed my teeth, and shaved all with this sense of impending doom. For some strange unexplained reason as I was putting on my slacks, it dawned on me that my alarm clock did not go off. I wondered why? Was it broken, were the batteries dead, or did I set it incorrectly? I had no idea. I went over to the alarm clock and saw that the time was displaying 3:30 AM. In total disbelief I then checked my wristwatch, which also confirmed that it was 3:30 AM. Then the light switch came on in the attic. The sun rises extremely early in Scotland in June and sets rather late around 10 PM at night. Feeling completely stupid, I went back to bed and tried to get several more hours of sleep, which was almost impossible to do. When I did meet Dr. Derm for breakfast at around 7 AM, I had to confess to him my stupidity. What do you think Dr. Derm said to me? He did the same exact thing at 4 AM in the morning. Boy, talk about a couple of complete rookies.

 As Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, “Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity,” and both of us were guilty of that. We never made that mistake again in Scotland.

Thaddeus Ted and I were partners in our club’s 2-Man Better Ball of partners’ tournament with the both of us having sugar plum dreams of winning the whole thing. The only obstacle that could keep the dream from happening was ourselves. Double T, as I call him, is about 5 years older in great physical shape still being able to bench 300 kilos with a cholesterol level of 16; this guy has like zero body fat weighing in at 190 lbs. and 6’ tall. You would think by looking at him, that he is some kind of Ukrainian hit man, who would break all 10 of your fingers if you missed a single car payment to him or the family. 

 Our very first match, we drew the infamous Doc Soo-ee and his longtime partner, Bob, the Pickpocket. Doc Soo-ee and Pickpocket have been partners for decades; they would win every major club event, not by one or two strokes, but by as many strokes as they possibly could accumulate. Their theory and practice was to take the opponent out as quickly as they could, “bury ‘em alive”, was their only motto.

 Doc wore Harry Carrey style thick glasses that he claimed he needed to see; allegedly he was just as blind as Stevie Wonder. Although when he needed to, he saw just fine. Doc was about 230 lbs. of average build always looking as if he was frozen at 65 years old, wearing drab brown colors; you’d think that he worked for UPS. Were as, Pickpocket almost always wore black, making you think that he was a mortician instead of an insurance man. Pickpocket seemed to be about 55 years old of average height and weight; he would be pure vanilla in a crowd except for the fact that he wore Johnny Cash black. One other note of importance was that Doc Soo-ee had the dubious reputation of peeing directly on over 2000 tress on the club’s premises while playing a round of golf.

 Double T and I were each playing on 13 handicaps, while our opponents were playing on a 20 for Doc Soo-ee and a 19 for Pickpocket, so we were giving up 7 shots and 6 shots respectively. This was absolutely criminal, since both the Doc and Pickpocket could and would shoot anywhere from a 72 to 76, especially if there was big money on the line or if it was a club tourney that they both wanted to win. The amazing attribute about both of these players is that they would beat the living snot out of you; generally, their matches were over by the 13 or 14 hole, whereby they would then start throwing triple bogeys at the remaining holes. Up until that point they would be spitting birdies and pars at you.

 It was simply mind boggling that their handys never dip below the 20 and 19 respectively. They played 5 to 6 days a week, always together, posting between 94 to 98 scores, while playing by themselves. Their rounds in the 70’s rarely were posted, because they claimed that once a match was over they would then start giving each other putts and/or they would start rolling the ball in the fairway or rough, thereby, claiming that you now could not post that as a fair score. Hence, they both acquired their names of the Doc Soo-ee, who was going to make you, “Squeal like a pig”, as in the Deliverance movie and Pickpocket because he was going to get his hand in your pocket rather quickly and quietly without you really knowing it, until it was too late.

 Double T and I won the 1st hole, with a par and a birdie, while both the Doc and Pickpocket could only mustered up a pair of pars.

 The 2nd hole is a par five, 504 yards long, that requires an uphill tee shot to a straight and narrow fairway with trees lining both the right and left side of the fairway. I had hit a good shot, about 245 yards straight up the middle of the fairway landing perfectly. Double T hit next, but happened to pull his ball into the trees to the left side of the fairway, about 30 yards behind my ball. Both the Doc and Pickpocket sliced their drives into the trees on the right. I was sitting in great shape. Double T was stymied behind some trees with only one shot available to him, that being a 40 yard straightforward punch shot, that would still leave his ball in the left-hand rough, which he executed with precision. Since, I dropped Double T off at his ball and then drove the golf cart to my drive, Double T  had to walk the 40 yards to his ball surveying what his third shot to the green would be. I had to wait some time, while both the Doc and Pickpocket were having extreme difficulty trying to punch their shots forward, bouncing balls off of all the trees. It was like watching The Who’s musical of “Tommy”, where the pinball Wizard was playing the pinball machine. It was the sound of utter music to my ears. By the time they both finally got their balls back into the fairway, they were each lying 5 and still had over 260 yards left to the green.

 It was finally my turn, I pulled out my Tour Edge metal 3 wood, planning on launching one straight  bullet right down the middle about 230 yards, that way I would only have about 40 yards or so, to chip it to the flag. As I cranked up to really wail on one, I noticed out of the corner of my left eye, Double T standing about 10 yards in front of me and 20 yards to my left in the rough, smiling totally with complete confidence in my shot making ability. As I came down and threw the ball, I had severely closed the face coming from the inside out, hitting a low screaming pull shot directly at Double T, everything then slowed down to super slo-mo. I screamed, “FORE!!!” as fast as I could, but it was too little too late. Double T saw the ball the whole way, with speed of a cheetah he immediately put both of his hands over the family jewels to protect them from shattering like some broken Waterford crystal, he was still planning on having an active sex life and no Titleist Pro V1 was going to change that.

 My golf ball screamed into the back of his left hand, leaving a mirror reversed “Titleist” imprint on his hand. Double T yelled and then shook off the pain by shaking his hand vigorously. Double T just smiled at me, saying he was okay and was ready to play on. He then hit his third shot to the front of the green but grimaced in pain right after the shot. Doc and Pickpocket did not say one word. They both finally got their balls on to the green each lying 7. Double T and I drove up to our balls; I proceeded to chip on first, leaving myself about a 15 foot putt for birdie. Double T tried to chip his ball but couldn’t, the pain was just too much and his left hand started to swell up. He just picked up his ball telling me to two putt, thereby beating our opponents and going 2 up, which I did.

 By the time we got to the 3rd hole, because the swelling and pain, Double T could not hold or grip a golf club in his left hand, it was now looking like puff the magic dragon claw, he did not want to go in, he just told me to play both of these el bandito’s and he would help me read my putts. By then the Doc and Pickpocket had that very nasty looking smile on their faces, which suggested I was going to have both of them stick it to me.

 I held my own for the rest of the match and was only 1 down through 16 holes. I pared the 17th hole, along with both of them, but they ended up winning that hole, because I had to give each of them a stroke. We lost the match 2 down with 1 to play. Doc Soo-ee, turned out to be an orthopedic hand surgeon, who did not say one word to Double T or myself on any of the previous holes, now he decides to look at Double T’s hand on the 17th green, saying that it was definitely broken and he should immediately go to the emergency room to have it x-rayed and a cast put on it. Double T and I looked at Doc Soo-ee in complete disbelief, thinking the whole time that he was a dentist and that’s why he refused to look at Ted’s hand with his brightest of white teeth smiling at us. The SOB knew all along that his hand was broken.

 Epilogue:

 I received two very large Lou Malnati’s cheese and sausage pizzas from Thaddeus Ted’s wife that weekend. His very beautiful and loving wife was so grateful that I broke Ted’s hand in early May, because he would not be able to play golf for the rest of that golf season. She was not going to be the golf widow that season. For the rest of that summer, Joan was going to take Ted shopping with her on all the weekends and they were now going to be able to have lunch every Saturday and Sunday together as a couple, as well as, having some English High Tea in mid afternoon every other weekend. Double T was learning how to drink from a demitasse cup, while sticking out his little pinky finger straight up in the air, in a very delicate manner, which he mastered rather expeditiously.

 Double T on the other hand, sent me a box of rotten overripe prunes, telling me that it was the nectar of the golf gods and that I should eat about 8 to 10 of these prunes about 45 minutes prior to playing golf,  then I would literally be able to hit the crap out of my shots.

 Thaddeus Ted is still one of my best friends, who now places himself about 20 yards behind me on all my golf shots, including when I’m putting, while wearing his extra thick super strength polycarbonate athletic cup every time we play. From a tea cup to a jock cup.

Biff is about 6’2″ tall, 290 pounds, with a wild unruly wiry brown hair on the side of his head similar to that of Gene Wilder with an extremely receding hairline that goes to the back of his scalp. Biff loves to eat fine foods, more than his desire to play golf; hence his handicap is reflected by his constant need for food registering an 18 handicap on the Richter scale. He has consumed more food than that of William the Refrigerator Perry #72 of the ’85 Super Bowl Champions – da Chicago  Bears, thus rightfully earning the nickname of da Biffrigerator.

Da Biffrigerator on one early morning at breakfast prior to our first tee time at Caledonia in south Myrtle Beach, proceeded to stuff his mouth with three or four cooked sausage links all at one time. Thus, while still munching on all of those sausage links he decided to talk at the same time, thereby, squirting sausage juice from his mouth, and thereby, drenching all of the rest of us that were seated at his table. Two of the fellows actually caught sausage juice in their eyes and thought they would be blinded for life. This was one of the most disgusting acts of eating and talking at the same time that we have all witnessed.

That total breakfast experience for all of us included watching him down four large o.j.’s, four large eggs that were cooked over easy, a large portion of very greasy hash browns, three pieces of toasted whole wheat beard covered with butter and grape jelly, a plate of mixed fresh fruit, one large cinnamon Danish, the three to four sausage links, all followed by 2 cups of coffee with cream and 4 teaspoons of sugar. We could not believe that one person could consume that amount of food in one sitting, and this was pretty much the same routine every morning of a golf trip. His passion and consumption for food was incredible.

Da Biffrigerator owns his own heating and air conditioning company, which failed to make any profits within the 15 years of its existence. The company was kept afloat by the subsidizing from his wife’s business ventures, which are all extremely profitable, thereby giving her complete control of the purse strings.

We have only been in Myrtle Beach for a day and a half for a six day golf trip, when da Biffrigertor received a phone call on his cell phone after the second round of golf that day and claimed that he had a huge business deal going south on him and that he had to immediately return to Peoria to save that account. He called the airlines and booked a flight flying out that evening heading straight back to Peoria. He made one phone call, packed all of his clothes, his golf clubs and took a cab directly to the airport returning home that evening, thereby; missing the last seven rounds of golf.

The rest of us all sympathized with what had just happened to da Biffrigerator, as we all understood that business problems have to take precedent over golfing, especially when you are in jeopardy of losing your largest client.

It was two weeks later when we all had returned from that golf trip, when Johnny 2 ball’s wife Nancy ran in to da Biffrigertor’s wife Ellen at the local Kroger grocery store. Nancy said to Ellen, “That was a real shame that Biff had to leave Myrtle Beach when he had just gotten there. Hopefully, he was able to save his biggest customer and salvage the account.”

Ellen said, “What the heck are you talking about?”

Nancy proceeded to re-tell the story on how Biff had to leave Myrtle Beach with his emergency business problems.

Ellen then clarified exactly what took place, which was that Biff did get an emergency call telling him he better return to Peoria that evening because all of his funding for his failing company was going to be pulled from him, by his wife.

It appeared that da Biffrigerator had gone a week earlier, prior to the Myrtle Beach trip, with three other fellows to Las Vegas for five days of golfing, eating, gambling, and proceeded to drop 20 K large at the gaming tables. He then returned from Las Vegas only to leave the very next day for Myrtle Beach without telling his wife that he was leaving or where he was going. Needless to say, Ellen was pissed and that was the last Myrtle Beach golf trip that da Biffrigerartor ever went on.

So if you ever go on a golfing trip make damn sure you tell your wife where you’re going and don’t hit the casino’s in Las Vegas prior to your trip. The lesson is you don’t screw around with the banker who is carrying your business loans, especially, when that banker happens to be your wife – not very smart money management.

A little background on Howie, who is a very successful retired dentist with above average size, about 6 feet 3 inches tall, 230 pounds, having the arms and wrists of Popeye, for all of his earlier years as a dentist who would pull teeth out only with his gorilla like fingers. Because of his strength in those forearms, Howie literally hits the living snot out of a golf ball. The only problem is he generally has no clue where the ball is going. All he knows is that it’s going at least 300 yards, somewhere.

 For the month of July and August, before our annual September Myrtle Beach trip, Howie was really struggling with his total golf game. He could not find the fairway or at least the correct fairway, his short game was a total mess and he could not sink a two or 3 foot putt. He was mentally in complete mayhem, just like Dean Winters, the mayhem guy in those Allstate commercials.

 Fast forwarding to our September pilgrimage with 16 golfers going on this trip, we got off the airplane in Myrtle Beach, gathered up our golf clubs, suitcases, and headed straight to the rental vans. Loading up the four rental vans, we headed directly to Prestwick Country Club for our 1 PM tee off time. The weather was perfect, 73 degrees, low humidity, and clear skies, with a very soft gentle breeze. We were off to begin a week of exceptional golf in Myrtle Beach.

 While in the Prestwick parking lot unloading our golf bags from their respective travel cases, we all could not help but notice that Howie had at least 12 different head covers sticking out of his golf bag. Actually, his golf bag looked like one gigantic multi colored head cover. To be exact, Howie had 12 different kinds of woods, from 3 drivers, 4 three woods, 2 four woods, and 3 five woods, eight irons, four different wedges, and two types of putters. A total of 26 clubs jammed into one golf bag, it looked utterly ridiculous and also was totally illegal, since you are only allowed to carry 14 golf clubs at any one time. All of us at one time or another has played with someone who carries an extra club or two in their golf bag, but not 26 clubs.

 The bag boys at Prestwick were shaking their heads in total disbelief as they tried to valiantly lift this golf bag into the back of a golf cart, while trying at the same time to desperately secure it to the golf cart. The bag strap had to be stretched so tight that it barely fit around this Rodney Dangerfield pro style golf bag. That golf cart was now so back heavy that the front wheels were coming up slightly off the ground.

 The fun started on the very first hole, when Howie explained to all of us that he has been trying to find his golf game and he just wasn’t sure what clubs were going to work for him, so he decided to bring all of them. On the very first hole he decided on one of his three drivers that he had brought and found that he could not pull that club out of his golf bag. All the clubs were literally wedged in so tight that you could not possibly remove any club easily.

 As it turned out when Howie finally did get his driver pulled out from his golf bag, along came 5 to 6 other clubs as well. There’s Howie on the very first hole with five or six other clubs pulled out of the golf bag lying on the ground by his golf cart, he then selected one of the drivers and proceeded to tee the ball up. He took several practice swings, we counted at least 10 swings before he finally addressed the ball and then he stood over the ball for another 20 seconds or so. He looked up at us and said that this driver, “just doesn’t feel right”, he then proceeded to go over to the golf cart where the 5 or 6 other clubs were lying down on the ground and proceeded to pick up another driver starting the whole long routine all over again.

 It took him at least a good 8 to 10 minutes before he finally hit the golf ball, which went straight right into the trees. His second declared mulligan ball then went straight left into the trees on the other side; this was going to be one long afternoon round of golf. Unlike Rannulph Junuh, Savannah’s favorite son in the movie, “The Legend of Bagger Vance”, there is no Bagger Vance to help Howie improve his golf game.

 On every shot that round, Howie went through the same indecisive decision of changing his mind on every club that he pulled out of his bag or should I say every five or six golf clubs that came out of his bag each time. The other three guys that were stuck with Howie that round wanted to kill him. I think it took them almost 6 hours to complete that round, while the rest of us had finished our round in just under 4 1/2 hours and were sitting very comfortably in the clubhouse bar enjoying our drinks, relaxing, and laughing enjoyably.

 When they finally pulled into the 19th hole, the three guys with Howie were steaming mad, saying that no way in hell were they going to play with Howie for the rest of the week, unless he paired down his golf bag to the required 14 clubs, which Howie finally did the next day, since no one was willing to play with him with the 26 clubs.

 Howie never did find his golf game that season and ended up purchasing 2 more drivers and 3 additional wedges from Discount golf in Myrtle Beach. God only knows how he got all those golf clubs home without Delta charging him more dollars for all of that extra weight. His bag had to be in excess of 75 lbs

 St. Andrews is now set up such that you can play the Old Course by booking through one of the golf brokerage firms, that has an arrangement with the St. Andrews Links Trust or you can take your chances with the daily lottery, which allows a limited number of tee times for the next day’s play. The golf brokerage firms charge an arm and a leg for them to get you a tee time, plus you have to stay at one of their hotels for a minimum of at least two or three days. It’s a very expensive way to go, just to play St. Andrews. The alternative option is the daily lottery, where you take your chances on your name being drawn and the tee time that you will get for the next day’s play. Since, we were on a very tight budget; we opted for the daily lottery. We had a two day window in which we could play St. Andrews, either on a Thursday or a Friday, so we both said a little pray to the golf gods.

 I called the St. Andrews lottery phone number around 8 AM on Wednesday morning, putting our names in. We were still in the town of Gullane and had a mid morning time tee at the Gullane #1 course. The St. Andrews lottery phone operator told me to either call back at 4 PM that afternoon, or we could go to the starter’s area bulletin board at the Old Course in St. Andrews to see the names and tee times that were drawn for Thursday’s play, where there would be an official computer printout sheet displayed prominently for all to see.

 Bruce and I were not scheduled to be in St. Andrews until 6 PM that Wednesday evening, so I elected to call them back at 4 PM. We found a phone booth in the town of Gullane. I put in the necessary shillings and dialed the phone number. My hands were shaking, my mouth was dry, and the sweat was starting to bead up on my forehead, you would have thought that I just ate a very spicy burrito as big as your head with strong jalapeño peppers. The good Lord was smiling upon us, for we had gotten a 10:30 AM tee time on the Old Course for Thursday’s play. We hit the mega Lotto.

 Upon arriving in the town of St. Andrews later that evening, we immediately checked into the Scores Hotel, which is about one half block from the Old Course. After we checked in and put our golf clubs and bags in our separate rooms, we agreed to meet in the hotel’s main lobby.  From there we literally ran down to the Old Course to double check the outside bulletin board, sure enough there was our name — the Paris group teeing off at 10:30 AM. Bruce and I turned after several minutes of just starring at the printout sheet and headed to the Old Castle tavern on south Castle St. to celebrate our good fortune with some local pints of brew, as Baha’ u’ llah once said, “A thankful person is thankful under all circumstances. A complaining soul complains even if he lives in paradise.” We were in Mecca and getting a little drunk with beer and happiness, that being as close to paradise as we where going to get.

 We showed up the next day a little hung over for our tee time, around 9 AM, being 1 ½ hours early and ready to play. Bruce and I did some practice putting on the putting green just to the right of the starter’s shack, we were extremely pumped up. Both of us finally noticed all these fellows hanging around the putting green and starter’s shack, where lady luck had not smiled upon them from the previous day’s lottery. They were all queueing it up in hopes that a twosome or threesome would let them join them on this most hallowed ground.

 Dr. Bruce started up a conversation with this fellow American named Peter Baker from Akron Ohio, who was on his honeymoon, only having this one single day in St. Andrews before his wife and he were off to London to continue their honeymoon. Peter was a very likable Vietnam veteran, who happened to be a former U.S. Marine officer. He was assigned to a patrol gunboat in Vietnam that was very similar to the gunboat used in the movie “Apocalypse Now”, starring Martin Sheen, heading up the Nung River in Cambodia, as the Stones played “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” in the background.

 Peter was playing to a nine handicap, who wanted desperately to play the Old Course; he was number 35 on the waiting list of all the single guys trying to catch a game that day. He had arrived at 7:30 AM, just to be number 35. The numbers 1 through 34, all appeared to be Asian born players who kept bowing graciously, while smiling continually towards Dr. Derm and myself. They all appeared to be wearing black or dark shorts, with black over the calf socks, wearing brightly colored short sleeve Tommy Bahama shirts, with some of them having a Nikon either draped over their shoulders or hung around their neck in their sandaled styled golf shoes.

 Bruce and I really liked this Marine vet from Akron, Ohio, how can you not want to support one of  our military, so I walked over to the starter’s shack and asked the starter if there was any way that we could have Peter play with us. To my complete surprise, the starter said, that since the tee time was booked officially in my name, I could therefore, have one or two or none of the waiting players play with us, it was totally at my discretion.

 Needless to say, I said that we wanted the fellow American by the name of Peter Baker to join us. When the St. Andrew’s starter publicly announced Peter’s name, as the only golfer who would be playing with us at our 10:30 AM tee time, you could have heard a chop stick drop. Man, all those Asians were really pissed at us, because Peter just went to the head of the class. I’m pretty sure that they were all swearing at us in their native language, because the bowing and smiling immediately stopped when they heard that Peter was the only one that was going to play with us. I believe they were also putting on some oriental curses on all three of us. One of the Asian’s seemed to do some sort of acupuncture on a golf doll that he had, which somewhat resembled Dr. Bruce, as he felt some minor pains in his back shortly after the announcement.

 After that great and memorable round at St. Andrews where we all shot in the 80’s, the three of us then headed to the Whey Pat Tavern on Bridge St. to again abide in some local pints of brew and get inebriated. There Peter called his wife to join us for some drinks before they headed off by train to London. She was an attractive wife who was very appreciative to Bruce and I for letting Peter join us, showing her gratitude by buying several rounds of beer. We were all getting shitfaced. It was a great day for all of us, although, every time we saw an Asian later that day they were still swearing and pointing at us. As president Kaunda of Zimbia said, “When you go in search of honey you must expect to be stung by bees” and we were going to be stung all day long. Hell, at that point we were feeling no pain anyway.

 Upon arriving at O’Hare Airport we all hurried to the Spirit Airlines ticket counter to check our luggage and golf bags, get our treasured boarding passes, then heading through security and the body scans to catch our non-stop flight to Myrtle Beach to begin a week of exciting golf. As the last two of us approached the ticket counter, it was down to just Randy and me. I went to one ticket agent and Randy went to the other. I had no problem with checking my luggage and golf clubs, getting my boarding pass, I was off, headed to join the others in the TSA line. As I was passing Randy, I stopped, since I noticed he was not making any headway.

 He was still dealing with a ticket agent by the name of Yolanda. She was just giving him fits and was not going to let him board the plane. Apparently, when Randy approached the counter and showed his driver’s license photo ID card, Yolanda then requested to see Randy’s MasterCard. Randy thought that this was a very peculiar behavior asking to see one’s credit card, but not wanting to make a fuss, he pulled his credit card out, showing it to Yolanda, thinking she probably was going to charge him an extra fee for the coffee book size golf book that he was carrying on,” How to Chip around the Greens,” by T. C. Chen.

 Au contraire, this was not the case, Yolanda said to Randy, “I’m sorry sir, but this is the wrong credit card, do you have another one?”

 Randy replied, “Yolanda, what the heck are you talking about? This credit card is as good as gold and valid.”

 Yolanda said, “Mr. Randall, I need to see the credit card that you used to purchase this ticket.”

 ”Yolanda, this ticket was purchased in January, almost 9 months ago, that credit card has since been cut up into little pieces and replaced by MasterCard with this new card, because they had some sort of breach in their security system last April.” Randy replied.

 Yolanda, then said, “That’s really not my concern; I just need to see the original credit card to verify that this is truly you.”

 Randy then pulled out his US passport, his voter’s card, his Barnes and Noble book club card, his Home Depot 20% off discount card, all in conjunction with his driver’s license and the new MasterCard. The counter was now filled with all the plastic cards; it looked like Randy was emptying all of the items from his pockets in front of the police sergeant, which was ready to send him off to the Big House.

 Again, Yolanda said, “Sir, unless you can produce the original MasterCard, I cannot let you board the plane.”

 Randy’s reply was simple, “This is crazy! Spirit Airlines has already been paid in cash from my credit card company last January. You have all my IDs in front of you, the original credit card was destroyed because of the breach in the MasterCard system. This new card was reissued to me through none of my doings, and now you won’t let me board the plane. What else do you want from me, my blood type?”

 Yolanda then sharply called over her supervisor, Lucia, to discuss this explosive situation. After a brief discussion, they both turned to Randy and said, “Sir, you’ll have to purchase a new ticket in order to get on this flight and as it stands right now, there is only one more seat available, so if I were you, I’d be purchasing that ticket right now before we sell it to someone else.”

 By now, Randy is totally incensed, he pulled out his cell phone immediately dialing MasterCard and asking for a customer service representative to explain to Yolanda that Spirit Airlines has already been paid for a ticket, that MasterCard invalidated the original card because of a security breach in their system and that Randy is who he says he is. Yolanda reluctantly talks with the MasterCard representative. Randy then tells both MasterCard and Spirit Airlines that since he now has to purchase another ticket to Myrtle Beach that either MasterCard or Spirit Airlines is going to have to make him whole on the original transaction.

 This entire situation has completely turned into a very bad Rowan & Martin or Abbott &Costello comedy routine. As Yolanda is pounding away on her computer keyboard, we happened to hear Lucia at the next counter sell the last seat on the flight to Myrtle Beach. Randy and I are now stupefied, because Spirit has only one flight per day to Myrtle Beach and now all the seats have been sold.

 Yolanda, says, “Oh, my god! All the seats are now gone. Well, let me first credit you back your $350 that you were charged in January and then we’ll figure out how to get you to Myrtle Beach on the next flight tomorrow.” Randy and I are still dumbfounded and shocked at this total fiasco; Randy has just lost one whole day in this thirty plus minute ordeal.

 Yolanda proceeds to punch in the credit information for Randy and then says to everyone’s surprise, “Wow! Randall today is your lucky day. There has just been a cancellation that just appeared on my computer screen, talk about being lucky, seat #19-C just became available, so give me your new MasterCard and I will book it for you.” Randy turned to me and without saying a single word, showed me his confirmation from last January where he was booked and seated on seat #19-C..

 Yolanda said to Randy, “Since, this is a last minute purchase to Myrtle Beach, Spirit Airlines will now charge you the $150 round-trip fare as a last minute sales promotion. Is that okay with you?”

 Randy turned to me and said, “$350 charged in January, a $350 credit processed now, then a $150 charge for today’s ticket, I believe that Spirit Airlines just took $200 out of their pocket and put it in mine. America, is this one great country or what!”, as Yakov Smirnoff would say.

 As a famous tag line in the closing narration would say, “There are 8 million stories in the Naked City. This has been just one of them.”