Skinny White Sunday, “Do. Or do not. There is no try” ....What The?

All that midweek talk of resolutions and resolves in the Threads reminded me that I used to play golf with a man who single-handedly devised a New Year Resolution in order to improve upon his status as the world’s worst golfer:

“FORGET TO THINK.”
[obligatory dramatic pause ensues, cue tumbleweed and eerie wind]

So I begin my Skinny White offerings for 2010 by presenting you with the entirely truthful brain scratcher that Mike was a man who in all sincerity...

... whoa, hold on a second... please, please, ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that such snorts of incredulity are uncalled for!

When? Tell me WHEN have I ever been less than truthful and sincere with you on a Sunday morning? Name the time, give me the date.

Huh?

Well, yes, okay there was that one time... and then there was...

So, as I was saying, I begin my Skinny White offerings for 2010 by presenting you with the entirely truthful brain scratcher that Mike was a man who in all sincerity when playing golf resolved one new year (without even realising it) to simultaneously engage in the process of remembering to forget to think.

Any woman will tell you, it’s not easy for a man to do two things at once (note to self: ask the Sarc Sisters if that bit needs scrubbing)... or at least Mike didn’t find it easy... but he did try, yes try he did.

Never a disciple of the Yoda School of “Try not. Do. Or do not. There is no try”, Mike was a terrible golfer, and wearing any amount of designer golf gear, carrying the most expensive golf clubs and using the best multiple layer, soft cover, firm core golf balls all had little impact on Mike’s inability to deliver the club head to the ball reliably.

Had he been able to consult “Techno’s Sporting Top Tips For 2010” he might well have found the answer to all his problems tucked away in a list on page 397:

”if the club head doesn’t meet the ball squarely there is always going to be a problem”

Try playing football without the ball or baseball without a bat... you’ll get the picture.

Curiously, for all his renowned inability there was a year when Mike won a trophy and was pronounced s**t shooter Shot Shaper of the Year, a coveted award given only to those demonstrating an unusual ability to be consistently creative in their recovery-shot making.

Not for Mike the simple 80 yard pitch to the heart of the green from the middle of the fairway. How well I recall that resonating Barnes Wallis of a bong which accompanied a ninety degree right hand slice of his as it ricocheted , bouncing -- bomb-like, off a frozen pond and still... somehow... unbelievably... inexplicably... OMG! No!!!!!!!! ended up by the pin.



And of course there was also the famous “Cow? What cow?” incident.

Here you should picture the tenth hole on a beautiful municipal course at which a local farmer held common browsing rights. His cattle were allowed to graze the course freely: a unique arrangement which led to some, shall we say, interesting up to the elbow “plugged ball” moments of a type replicated only when grasping for a single word of truth @ the immoralcowpat.

The par three 8th hole required that any half competent golfer should select a 9 iron, in order to clip the ball high off the tee and across a small ravine.

As a line of large domestic ungulates (cows to you and me, mate) began to trudge, indian file, into his line of sight, with Mike on the tee, eyeing his ball beadily and chanting his mantra hynoptically to himself (“forget to think, forget to think, forget to think”) I have the distinct recollection of hearing several people calling desperately:

“Watch out for the cows, Mike.”

“Mike, watch the cows!”

Sadly, it seems that Mike, having resolved to “forget to think”, had also resolved to forget to listen, concentrating as he was on launching his next Cruise missile, and not being able to do two things at the same time... him being a man and all.

And so, you join us as the rocket boosters ignite and blast off occurs...with the ball leveling out at approximately three feet from the ground, straight at the line of Bos premigenius (still cows to you and me, mate).

Fearing the fallout of splattered bovinae (co-incidentally, a dish served frequently at The Blue Oasis) watch again in morbid horror as the missile hugs the contours of the land and rocketeers... somehow... unbelievably... inexplicably... oh so joyfully into the only space in the line of four legged beasts, simultaneously singeing the backside of one cow and scraping the nose of another with uncanny precision, as Mike, surfacing from his self induced “forget to think” trance is heard to say, “Cow? What cow?”

In essence, Mike never fully understood that it wasn’t a good thing to be the only golfer in the known world to trip over and stumble forwards every time he attempted to strike the ball. That unique selling point is what carried his club head away from its target with such unpredictable, and occasionally very entertaining, consequence.

Clearly, because this is Conservatives4Palin there has to be some Palin related sub-textual metaphor type thing in all of that... darned if I can see it, but you’re welcome to continue looking for some sort of moral about forgetting to think, the importance of timing in 2010, and what about that “Do or do not bit”, right?

Alternatively, you could forego that fruitless search because what I really need to do is assure all consternationists called Sandra that no crittur by the name of Jeanne or Regina or Bree was actually singed or scraped in the course of that round of golf. Mike’s rights as a human being were protected at all times and his self-esteem preserved by our constant reassurance to him that he was indeed unique and special and valued enough to be called the worst golfer in the world, an opportunity open to all. Please be aware that the farmer with browsing rights for our municipal course is subsidised handsomely by the government for the privilege of feeding his cows for nothing and covering my golf shoes in dung once a week. The effluence collection tax imposed on all golfers at the course, and promptly re-distributed amongst all non-golfers, seems a small price to pay, and distinctly better value than hitting the tip jar @madpaddygates. We remain very grateful to Mike for the healthcare fringe benefit which the extra exercise entailed in hours of searching for his golf ball gave us.

I hope to resume my gathering of material for a weekly round-up now that the Christmas decorations are set to come down at C4P Central. I can’t guarantee that it will make any more sense than what you’ve just read but who knows, perhaps this week the ex-dietician seeming to seek permanent residence here will answer positively that most fundamental of questions on the subject of matrilineal descent, and I'll have something sensational to cover.

And if you have already broken your own particular resolution then that probably means you’ll forget to spare a thought for poor old Mike’s as well. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy New Year to les barbares ordinaire.