So I get this call in the middle of the night from Catie asking me if she can borrow my golf clubs.
I'm a pretty trusting guy, so I say sure, go for it. She mentions that she and her friends are molesting
goats and climbing school buildings for fun this summer. Cool, whatever, just don't molest any goats
with my golf clubs. Sure, no problem, she said, we're just planning to wreak some minor havoc and
try to seriously piss off the cops, the school board, mom, Reeker's mom, the mayor, the president,
Janet Reno, Elian Gonzalez's father, Fidel Castro, Charlie Rose, Keanu Reeves and whoever else
we possibly can. Whatever, I say, just remember: no goats.
So I go about my business getting the stable ready to open, putting the ponies out to pasture, getting
the bumper stickers printed up, basically just minding my own business when I get a call from a local
goat farmer. The moment he told me he was into goats, I knew. I know someone who is into goats too,
I thought. Unfortunately, into goats in a bad way. With golf clubs. With MY golf clubs!
Then the cops call and want me to come down to the station and identify my clubs. Apparently they
were used in some sort of barnyard "incident". That's all I get out of the cheerful police officer. When I
get down to the station, he takes me to the morgue. Suffice it to say, the only visible part of my golf
club was the handle. That's my 3-wood, I said. How did it get that far in there? Well, sir, that is the
question of the hour, says the officer.
So that brings us up to date. Now I have to appear in court and identify my clubs. Which means I'll have
to wear a suit. I hate suits. And all because I let Catie borrow my golf clubs.
