So To Speak

[EmperorPenguin]

This is an entertaining article from Golf Magazine nearly forty years ago, with a couple additions from yours truly.  Loaded with jargon, let's see if you can understand what was said.

 

So To Speak

 

I put on my nails, hoist the hickories and head to the rock pile to beat some balls.  I blade a few wedgies, spank a few licorice sticks and put a few fungoes into Smoke City.  Everything is coming up bingo.

 

Over the shack, I sign up with a sandbagger who rides a gas buggy with a bird dog; he's a renowned Dutch Harrison as well as an inchworm.  The third guy is Mr. Aerosol; he spends a lot of time pounding cabbage, but around the dance floor he's nothing but a plumber.

 

On one, I let the big dog eat from the tiger tees, and I blueprint it way out on the fluffy.  Unfortunately, my second is a Hoover, which shorts me.  I go for an up and down, but hit a chili dipper, which leaves me on the Brillo.  I scuff the flat stick and yell, "Get legs!" but that doesn't help, and I'm left with a knee knocker for a booger.  Cup city.

 

I overfade the chief on two and have to winnow the hay to get close.  Meanwhile, Mr. Aerosol comes back from the toolies to make a 40-foot no-brainer for par, and The Dutch, after starting with a bugcutter, puts his whitee into the service entrance for a tweeter.  The Dutch takes a good look at my pill and sees that the bird might chirp twice.  "You're in the throw-up zone," he says, immediately giving me the collar.  I hit a stoney and shout, "Taxi!" but the cabbie is out to lunch.

 

On three, I bend it, and I'm in jail.  I'm sitting pretty and decide to green it by exploding a niblick.  But I airmail it and have to bump-and-run for another swooner.

 

On four, my second in command comes up with a worm burner, but I put him to work again and hit a frozen rope to the flagstick.  This time the big bird sings for me.

 

The fifth is a duck-soup five and I sit on one.  From the short grass I snap into the spinach.  "Gonzo!" yells The Dutch who, I notice, has jacked his up in the hippy hair.  After sleuthing the forest and solving the mystery, I noodle mine into the cat box.  However, it isn't a fried egg, and I manage to feather a sandy to kick-in territory.

 

On the next few, The Dutch's needles don't help at all.  But by bailing out regularly, staying away from Fat City and using enough stick, I made the turn with a Jerry Lee, which doesn't exactly put me with the choppers.

 

The Dutch watches me burn the cup on 10.  "He's a blacksmith," I hear him say to his chauffeur.  That's when I decide to let out the shaft and play darts the rest of the way in.

 

On 11, I put a little persimmon on it and smile inside as The Dutch pops a rainmaker and Mr. Aerosol a quail-high.  My second is a stiff-a-roo with some chew on it that lands past the flag and zizzies back four feet.  The great songster drops his glory-be on me again.  As I jab my short stick into the sack, both my traveling companions are playing green hockey and carding doubles.

 

By 16, I begin to get the notion I can Van Gogh The Beast.  I reason that even a 41 back would give me an Around The World.  From the blocks, I put a little Cutty Sark to amputate the dogleg but Thurman Munsoned it.  "Morte!" yells The Dutch, "Oscar Brown, reload!"  My third off the tee is an Oral Roberts, then I get it wet trying to reach the ice rink.  Meanwhile, The Dutch puts one off the screws and gets a member's bounce, and Mr. Aerosol makes a downhill ocean liner.  I leave 16 with a snowman.

 

Seventeen is a bowling alley with more H deuce.  My wind cheater strays to the left and gets polluted, but my third bounds twice on the nap and Shaquilles it.  The great game bird has unloaded on me yet again.  The Dutch lets out a groan, then lard-asses a pelt the size of a dinner plate.

 

So I end up standing on the blocks on eighteen, looking at a two-shotter with a roller-coaster dance floor.  Like the masters say, I pause at the top, get my knees through and lay smoke.  Then I toss grass, take one more stick and come to rest on the postage jungle.  To my satisfaction, The Dutch zeppelins out of the brown sugar and flies to a second nutmeg parlor.  When we're all aboard, I seek Bernie Sanders on Mr. Aerosol's drain job.  I try to put it on the pro side but juice it eight feet past, and I'm dying.  "Twenty you don't!" says The Dutch.  "You always choke on field goals."  So I look at the long road to the barn and say, "You're on!"  I eye-ball the nap, do some housecleaning and massage it.  When the pill hits the back of the tin I don't hear the rattle in the house because Mr. Aerosol is cheering and The Dutch is muttering earthy words in my direction.

 

So we trundle to the recovery room, where I nab 28 green ones from The Dutch and 15 from Mr. Aerosol.  I buy the foamies, "Seventy-nine?" says a four-plusser who comes in later.  "I got a Red Grange!"

Edited October 20, 2020 by EmperorPenguin

[The Aspidistra in the Hall]

Now this is fun. As a Brit I get some of it, some from knowledge and some from inference, but I;m looking forward to seeing how this works. btw , what was the date of this again?

[EmperorPenguin]

I do not have that magazine anymore, but I would estimate some time in the 1980's.  Persimmon gives it away.