Dermablast

Roybob’s Book on Golf: The Hucks, A Golfer’s Divine Comedy, and a Religious Philosophy of Golf.

Huck Tales

Dermablast

Getting dusted on the golf course usually means that one got an ass whooping on the scorecard. Recently, however, getting dusted on the golf course took on a different meaning.

My foursome rounded the corner at the tee box on the fourth hole at Golden Eagle to find a member of the maintenance crew blowing leaves off the tee box with one of those massive blowers that has to be hauled around by a tractor. I swear the guy saw our carts coming, but he did not turn off the blower. He was doing circles around the tee box.

The first cart, carrying Jeffrow and Druseppe, had already arrived at the tee box, and Druseppe had already stepped out of the cart where he was facing the tee box. Fuji and I, in the other cart, were arriving at the tee when I realized what was about to happen. I said to Fuji, “Oh shit, watch out!” Fuji swerved to the left, and we managed to avoid the sand storm. Druseppe, however, received a full blasting. He spit and spewed; he wiped his eyes and neck; he untucked his shirt and shook it out; he removed his hat and hit it against his thigh. Druseppe was not laughing, but we could not contain ourselves.

When we reached where our tee balls landed, Fuji was complaining about a bunker on the eighteenth hole. Fuji asked, “Druseppe, why doesn’t the work crew maintain the traps better?” Druseppe responded, “Fuji, did you see the genius driving the blower around? That ought to answer your question.”

Roybob’s Book on Golf: The Hucks, A Golfer’s Divine Comedy, and a Religious Philosophy of Golf.

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