And here we have the five remaining contenders in the original
Dinah Shore Invitational Golf Extravaganza, which took place way before a
musical talk show host took over the proceedings and spruced things up a bit.
Back then, the newly-established event was simply known as “Something To Do on a Saturday Afternoon in
1926 Before the Stock Market Went to Hell and You Had to Get Serious About Life”.
Little did anyone know at the time that a festive and orientation-inclusive
tradition had just been established in the heat of the lusty California sun.
As the bevy of
beauties awaited their turn at the final hole, wobbling only slightly from the
Sloe Gin Fizzes they had been gulping down since first arriving at the course,
beverages chastely acquired from a bootlegger with the intriguing name of Hexom
Breen, they had a moment to reflect as they waited for some underling to do a
bit of crowd-control maintenance, with this person running about and shushing
people because you’re supposed to be really quite at golf tournaments until
somebody does something extraordinary.
Since it’s not
easy to make the common folk stop talking about themselves as if they had any
significance on the planet, the shushing took a bit of time, which allows us,
dear future voyeurs, to eavesdrop on those personal reflections. To make things
easier, since, if you’re still with our story at this point, you’ve probably
sampled a few Sloe Gin Fizzes yourself this evening, or at least got a nice
whiff of cooking sherry, we’ll make this simple by going from left to right as
we intrude on private thoughts.
Player #1: “I’m
pretending to lean on my golf club in a swanky manner, so that it appears I am
trying to psychologically destroy my competitors with my confidence, but the
reality is that I sorely need some stability right at the moment. The alcohol
we drank at that time was potent enough to give yourself a Brazilian wax, if
one chose to have one and the styling choice had actually been invented at the
moment when we gathered around this stupid block of ice that the narrator has
failed to mention up to this point.
But more importantly,
because there’s always something more important about me, as I obviously have the
most progressive hairstyle for miles around, I really enjoy flying. You can
tell this by the bold graphic on my combination bathing suit and hip-enhancing
nightie. (A girl has to be prepared for all social occasions.) I love wings!
Although, if I had known at the time that wings would eventually become a
catchphrase associated with feminine hygiene products in a later decade, I
probably wouldn’t have loved them as much. But I still have the best hair.”
Player #2: “I don’t
have a golf club. Everyone else has one, but not me. I don’t even understand
what I’m doing or how I got here. When I woke up this morning, I thought
everything would be fine if I just hand-stitched some embroidery on the
shoulders of my outfit. But then something went wrong with my flatiron and now I
have too much presence on the right side of my head. And then that man with the
fizzes showed up. I knew I shouldn’t have accepted any liquids from him, but he
looked just like F. Scott Fitzgerald, and that made me kind of horny, even
though I really think Zelda is dreamier.
Wait. What did I
just say? Zelda? I don’t want Zelda. Do I? This sun is really hot out here.
When can we go home? Do I want Zelda? Does this make me Lebanese? Is that the
right word? I’m so confused. Can somebody just find me a stupid golf club?”
Player #3: “I am
SO hungry. I haven’t eaten in days. I can barely stay upright. Why are we
standing around whacking at a little ball with sticks? What’s the name of this
game? I don’t like it. I don’t like anybody or anything, especially my hair,
which apparently fell out of a tree onto my head. I just want somebody to find
a cow and kill it and fix me a freakin’ steak.
Oh. What am I
holding in my left hand? Is that a cricket bat? Are we in England? I know we
drove really far to get to this dump out in the middle of nowhere, way before
the senior citizens showed up and built retirement homes. Or am I holding a
bottle of moonshine? Maybe. Those things are everywhere these days. I don’t
know. It’s so hot, I can’t even think straight. I’m about to straddle that
block of ice and buck until my toes curl.”
Player #4: “Why
do those bitches behind me have to talk so much? I’m trying to concentrate
here. Do they not understand how hard it is to hold a club up like this, act
like I’m having the best time of my life, smile for the photographer who doesn’t
want to be here and hates us, and suck in my gut, all at the same time? If I
hear one more word from the Snatch Sisters about being uncomfortable, when all
they have to do is stand there while I hold a pose that no other woman will
hold until women are allowed to play baseball during World War II, I’m going to
whack the hell out of every one of them.
And my feet are
completely frozen, standing on this asinine block of ice for hours, just
another item in my pain parade. Who thought this was a good idea, doing something
pointless just to get attention and win a competition? I’m guessing it was a
Republican who came up with this stunt. Idiots.”
Player #5: “I’m
not wearing a bra and I’m the coolest person for miles around. That’s all you
really need to know about me. Unless you have money. I could use some cash.
That last gig I had sucked, with people getting shot and coppers running all
over the place. Didn’t even get to finish painting my nails before I had to run
for Jesus. This here is a piece of cake. I can stand here all day, beats having
to use fake names and wash up after very customer.
Hold the horses.
Who’s that guy over there on the far left? He’s walking like he’s got something
lodged, so he’s probably got some bucks. Bet I can show him how this flapper
flaps. I just gotta wait for Annie Leibovitz over there to wrap this shoot up.”
Click.
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