Golf Gods pt. 1

     "Order, order in the clubhouse! Enough horsing around, Todd, let's get down to business. I said quiet in the gallery! No, not you Steve; keep arranging your paintings on those easels - on the easels, the easels, Steve, get those furry little sonsofaguns out of here! Off the, "Our pearly gates are always open" welcome mat, get 'em outta there, I just picked that up at Hobby Lobby while I was shopping for giant block letters to hang on my birdbath that is decked out in a cowboy hat, stirrups and throwback Tim Duncan jersey! Alright Todd, what's on the scorecard for this meeting? Hey who stole my miniature pencil? Let's see those pockets turned inside out everyone! I'm looking at you, Mindy. We all know that whole ordeal you got into with the staples at Staples." A large man with an imposing light gray beard, a matching black Nike visor and red polo combination and a cavernous voice bellowed out as he smashed a gavel shaped like a putter onto a green table.

     "Umm, we want to talk about sand traps." An impish looking, curly haired man with a checkered bow tie let out with a whimper. That must be Todd.

     The room full of smart phone scrolling, mimosa sipping, country club joining, farmer tanning middle-aged business executives erupted in a riotous volcano of Hawaiian proportions, momentarily returning to above Earth from the amalgamation of haze of the Cloud and Cloud Nine. 

     "Sand traps?! You want to talk about bunkers again, Todd? What, did you just return from World War I? What's your obsession with that, Todd? Jesus Christ."

     "You guys hollered?" A middle-aged fella with long hair slicked back, a neatly trimmed beard and ironically wearing a white satin bathrobe poked his head out of a nearby window like an old Italian man screaming at a rivaling old Italian man who lives in an apartment across the street on roughly the same floor as they swan dive into a heated debate about who makes the best slice of pizza pie in New York City. The camera zooms out to reveal him sitting smugly in the middle block of a Hollywood Squares style board with his feet propped up on a majestic mahogany desk, puffing on a Cuban cigar and perusing the latest edition of Paul Street. The other squares are filled by the current members of Judas Priest and their disciples. 

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