And it did, of course. So our now
healthy hero bought himself a long
round of golf. And, as these things gen
erally go, it was quite an expensive round.
Our hero nevertheless made a valiant attempt
to remain upbeat about his health and the
round of golf. This was a celebration, after all.
However, things were really starting to get to
him. The course was too coarse for his taste,
for example (but I’d suggest that you trust a
narrator when he states that our hero never
tasted that great, anyway—so it was what it
was). Also, on this particular day, all of the golf
carts had been replaced with horses, which were
to be saddled by each sad golfer. And our dear
hero had never been to one cinema in the great
Southeast for to see a double feature Spaghetti
Western, much less a single feature Western of
any cuisine or flavor whatsoever. So no golf
carts and no saddled subsitutes. “Things are
getting a bit sticky for a celebration,” thinks
our hero. And that is just when it was found
that every golfer’s balls were at least a little
bit mildewed; and none moreso than our hero’s
poor balls, which were irreversibly gunked up
with green and gray muck. “What rotten luck,”
thought our man of the hour, the earlier pekid
but now perfectly healthy yet quite distraught
once-upon-a-hero. Who was now, it would
appear, making his way swiftly toward an exist
ential crisis of some potentially invaluable
relevance to his erstwhile ordinary life. And
so it was. A gamechanger for a real live human
being was most certainly about to transpire.
