Menace On The 8th Hole
The afternoon I was moving my parents into their new home, Dad took me for a quick tour around the house. As we were walking through the back yard Dad started laughing. He was pleased with himself. He said, "I chose this lot because we'll never get hit with golf balls here. Heh heh heh." I don't care where you live on a golf course, your house is gonna get pelted with golf balls. I know this, and if I were to buy a home it would not be anywhere near a golf course because I personally have a problem with that. Dad scoffed at me like I was a dunce when I suggested his house is most definitely going to take a few hits.
Their house backs up against a fairway on the 8th hole. My aunt and uncle live in the same subdivision just a few blocks away.
Inevitably, Dad's house did in fact start taking direct hits from hapless golfers. The first few times it happened Dad ran outside within seconds of hearing a golf ball impact somewhere on his house, found the offending ball, and waited there until a player came looking for it. As soon as that golf ball's owner arrived Dad instantly gave him or her lip and glared at them with anger. Later, one of his windows got broken if I remember right and everything worsened. From that point on if a golfer came anywhere near the house and Dad saw them through a window he would be outside in a blink of an eye screaming at them. Most of the time when Dad freaked out on players they weren't even looking for a lost ball. They were simply walking past his house minding their own business. That was ironic since Dad had been caught numerous times by his neighbors sneaking around outside their houses late at night with a flashlight looking for stray golf balls to confiscate. It was scaring some of the elderly people living on my father's street.
People being people, word quickly got out through the neighborhood about Dad's bad behavior. It even got back to the golf clubhouse. Players who had been yelled at by Dad would return to the clubhouse and complain about "that bastard on the 8th hole." Frequently my uncle would go on the course to play a round of golf with a good buddy of his and they'd be joined up with another player or two that they didn't know. When they started to play the 8th hole strangers that my uncle had been hooked up with would begin to make wisecracks about the "asshole that lives over there" and point at Dad's place. "You'd better not hit that guy's house. He's a real mother fucker." My uncle's friend would usually wait until they were just about finished playing the hole and then he'd say to the group, "You know, it's a shame your brother in law lives there." He'd laugh to himself while watching embarrassed strangers trying to apologize to my uncle for their rude remarks. Heh. My uncle didn't care.
Dad unknowingly is now a marked man in his neighborhood. During one of his latest episodes hassling a particular golfer he became so rowdy that this player almost punched the living daylights out of Dad. As it happens, the player who was nearly going to beat my father's ass is the police chief of their town. The police chief was so infuriated with Dad that he commented afterwards in the clubhouse "I'm gonna remember that guy, and I know where he lives."
Nice work, Dad.
Their house backs up against a fairway on the 8th hole. My aunt and uncle live in the same subdivision just a few blocks away.
Inevitably, Dad's house did in fact start taking direct hits from hapless golfers. The first few times it happened Dad ran outside within seconds of hearing a golf ball impact somewhere on his house, found the offending ball, and waited there until a player came looking for it. As soon as that golf ball's owner arrived Dad instantly gave him or her lip and glared at them with anger. Later, one of his windows got broken if I remember right and everything worsened. From that point on if a golfer came anywhere near the house and Dad saw them through a window he would be outside in a blink of an eye screaming at them. Most of the time when Dad freaked out on players they weren't even looking for a lost ball. They were simply walking past his house minding their own business. That was ironic since Dad had been caught numerous times by his neighbors sneaking around outside their houses late at night with a flashlight looking for stray golf balls to confiscate. It was scaring some of the elderly people living on my father's street.
People being people, word quickly got out through the neighborhood about Dad's bad behavior. It even got back to the golf clubhouse. Players who had been yelled at by Dad would return to the clubhouse and complain about "that bastard on the 8th hole." Frequently my uncle would go on the course to play a round of golf with a good buddy of his and they'd be joined up with another player or two that they didn't know. When they started to play the 8th hole strangers that my uncle had been hooked up with would begin to make wisecracks about the "asshole that lives over there" and point at Dad's place. "You'd better not hit that guy's house. He's a real mother fucker." My uncle's friend would usually wait until they were just about finished playing the hole and then he'd say to the group, "You know, it's a shame your brother in law lives there." He'd laugh to himself while watching embarrassed strangers trying to apologize to my uncle for their rude remarks. Heh. My uncle didn't care.
Dad unknowingly is now a marked man in his neighborhood. During one of his latest episodes hassling a particular golfer he became so rowdy that this player almost punched the living daylights out of Dad. As it happens, the player who was nearly going to beat my father's ass is the police chief of their town. The police chief was so infuriated with Dad that he commented afterwards in the clubhouse "I'm gonna remember that guy, and I know where he lives."
Nice work, Dad.
posted by factory_peasant at 12:29 PM
5 Comments:
hehe funny post. i wonder how he freaks on gophers?
actually i'm glad you mentioned that. he got busted for shooting gophers in our front yard from a second floor livingroom balcony with a .308 or a .30-.30 hunting rifle. i was about 4 years old and i remember him leaning over the balcony railing popping off rounds blowing them up in the garden. i guess he was tired of trying to gas them out of their holes or use traps so he just shot 'em.
we weren't living in the boonies or anything like that. the neighborhood was a new subdivision 70s style like the brady bunch. our neighbors were pretty unhappy with dad's rifle fire so they called the cops on him. what a dumbshit.
omg, i was just kiddin' 'bout dem
gophers... did he think 'charlie'
was on breaching the perimeter????
he was a vietnam vet right? did he duck for cover anytime somebody farted???
egads,
i feel yor pain
he was in the US Army during Vietnam, but he wanted to avoid front line combat. shit, who didn't? apparently back then for a while if you volunteered for military service you could pick and choose what you wanted to do.
if you were drafted, you did and went wherever they told you to. can you say infantry? can you say cannon fodder?
Dad chose a communications unit that had to lay down wire over rugged terrain for comms. if they were ever activated to go overseas more than likely they would never see front line combat because his unit had no weapons. in a way, he was kinda smart figuring that out. during the war he either stayed on base with his unit stateside or they did training at a base in monterey whenever the troops there activated for duty in asia.
as far as the gophers are concerned, Dad was just being an idiot like usual.
thanx fo' da clarification
praise the lord, pass the grits
Post a Comment
<< Home