El Lofto Magnifico, or How Ian Got His Groove Back - by Jon

Anything Ian says about our golfing trip today is a lie. I'm just posting first so the truth hits the streets before the bitter, angry, booze-filled lies.

I was unfortunately unable to get my shit together on the course today, so I shot an embarassing 95. That's right, a full 16 strokes more than my performance last week. For those of you who don't golf, having a terrible game is not unlike a bout with sexual impotence: You spend a lot of time bemoaning your equipment, then you find yourself uttering more often than you'd like, "well, shit, it worked last week..."

Ian, on the other hand, was playing reasonably well. He beat me by a fair bit, even though I was too disgusted with my dysfunction to pay attention to his score, as well. My official story to explain my poor play on the links is that since Ian is leaving Durham Region soon for the forseeable future, I didn't want his last memory of golfing with me to be one of a senseless beating.

Oh, and Scotty died. I poured a bit of scotch out on my lawn, but the hurt just wouldn't go away. RIP, buddy.

This is Zero-Echo-Niner, over and out.