Chapter 8:  How About a Fresca?

Sensing a strange and terrible plot twist involving inter-species mating, Fred thought it best to tell the latest “Little Tommy” joke.  As he related the latest adventure of our buddy the potty mouth and fondling the cats, he was sure he heard the unmistakable strains of “Una Paloma Blanca” echoing about the room.

Suddenly, from under the ottoman, hopped Jack Nicklaus and Calvin Peete.  “Jinkies! Hide me! It’s the Golf Police!” screamed Lar.

Calm, cool, collected as always, Tracy observed “we don’t have an ottoman.”

“This is too fucking weird and shit.  Somebody give me a doob or a barf bag, quick! ” hollered Bruce.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” remarked Lisa.

“Hey white boy!  Bend over cuz you’s my love puppy now!!!,” snarled Calvin.

“Hush you fool!” bellowed Jack while elbowing him in the solar plexus. “Lar, you fucker, that’s right, we’re the big fucking Golf Police (and we’ve got clubs this goddam long!)!”

“You doinked a big one this time,” he continued.  “According to Hoyle, as every good golfer and you should know, when one draws blood on the driving range, one should be sure to finish the kill, eh?”

“Of course you’re right as always, Jack,” Larry replied.  “Would it help if I was rrrreeeeaaaallllllllyyyy sorry he still draws breath (orally, of course!) and promised to do better next time?”

“Yeah, sure punk,” Calvin mumbled as he and Jack chastised Lar with 5 Irons and Ping brand putters (without drawing blood).