Sandbaggers, Hustlers and Euro Trash

It was an A list Saturday at the club.  All of the stars, sandbaggers, hustlers and hackers were out in force.  Surrounding the first tee were a couple of  Dave's, Scotty S., Bill the Web, and Lady Killer John.  Holding court on the putting green was the king, Swingin' Mr. Stevens.  He was imparting his royal wisdom on loyal subjects Blue Lou, Cabo Nick, The Commissioner and Big Cat.  Kibitzing in the corner, over by the carts, were Steve Buy a Vowel, Biscuit, and the singers, Ross and Gordon.  My lawyer, Blue Moon Retainer, was having trouble getting a word in, talking to Gator Feeley.  It was a smorgasbord of swindlers, suckers and sure things. A glorious day at the club, or so I thought.

 

A disheveled man in wrinkled clothes emerged from the pro shop sporting Rental Clubs.  A neon sign saying "take my money please" was blinking on and off his fore head.  Cha-ching.  He smelled of French Brandy, said he was Spanish, looked Italian and later, to my chagrin, played golf like he was Irish.  I yelled over to the Moon, who was looking more like a mime than a mouthpiece, "I've got this one, what's the Euro exchange rate?"

 

In a very De'tante gesture, he accepted the standard muni with all the auto presses and specs. In fact, as he put it, "Amigo, in good faith, let us double the wager."  I was sunk.  I was taken in by the oldest trick in the Steve DeSantis handbook, Rental Clubs!  To put it mildly, Custer, Napolian and the 1940 Polish Army got off with a slap on the wrist compared to my loss.  

 

I awoke the next morning somewhere by the fourth hole, where the concrete out grows the grass, broke, dishevled and smelling of French Brandy.