So here’s another funny story of an adventure Peter had.  The golf balls and exercise ball rolling down the hill was funny enough alone and then adding this adventure reminds me of Peter’s excellent descriptive writing skills and his dedication to chasing a rat or chasing golf balls down a hill.

I am home on the second day of a 4-day encounter with what was probably swine flu. At 10:30 a.m. Kara is at work and it is a nice day outside especially if you have just begun to keep food down. I happen to be on the main floor getting some juice when the phone rings. It is the lovely and talented Kara checking on the patient. Ever happy to talk to her, I begin to relate my relative progress against the latest invader of my body. The back of our house is essentially all windows and glass sliding doors looking out onto a flat space that contains patio furniture, a hot tub and lots of plants. The yard rises sharply up an ivy-covered hill cresting about 30 feet above the level of the house. This level of detail becomes important momentarily.

Talking to Kara I look out into the backyard and see a rat on top of the hot tub eating spilled birdseed. The bird feeders are situated above the hot tub which is stupid, but it gives the birds a flat area upon which to feed. It also gives Dublin Pool and Spa the opportunity to sell me replacement filters on a regular basis. Kara hates rats and it is my job to eradicate them from the area. Kara quickly suggests I shoot the little beast and though depleted of testosterone, there is enough left to stimulate the primordial areas of my brain into action. Woman need protection, Man do job. I hung up and began my deadly pursuit of the 13 ounce rodent. The hunting dog shares my enthusiasm and so we begin the adventure.

We keep a Daisy Model 880 pellet gun near the back door for just such situations. Unfortunately, there are only the aerodynamically deficient BBs instead of the .117 caliber pellets. Pellets do a much better job of dispatching varmints as the fly faster and straighter. No matter, I am on a mission. Pumping the air gun up and loading it, I stealthfully slide open the glass sliding door and the screen door. The rat has its head down engrossed in the bounty of seeds on the cover of the hot tub. There is a plant stem in the way of a clear shot so I must wait for the rat to move a few inches. This is not a problem as I have all day. Finally he wanders into an area where I have a clear shot. Aiming for the shoulder, I carefully squeeze off the shot. As expected there is some curvature as the BB rockets towards the intended victim and hits him the thigh. Not a mortal wound, but it will slow him down. The rat leaps off the back of the hot tub and disappears into the English ivy.

The dog is energized by the sound of the gun and we both tear out the door to finish the job. Did I mention I am in my underwear? Would you expect less from me? Reloading the gun as I approach the hot tub, I jump up on the hot tub cover and slowly inch my way on my stomach to its rear. Leveling the gun as if I am a SWAT team member about to flush a criminal from a closet, I thrust the weapon downward in the direction of the rat. He is nowhere to be seen as the ivy is thick. So now we have a wounded animal in thick cover. Granted this is not a wounded lion or Cape Buffalo in the Serengeti bush, but I am on a roll here.

Let’s recap. There is a pale 275 pound male clad only in his underwear (red) on the top of a hot tub waving a loaded weapon around. There is a hunting dog going nuts at the prospect of a retrieval and he is jumping around like a maniac. There are neighbors around, but they are unseen due to landscaping. The large male is unaware of the neighbors anyway. The only thing lacking is a cop and a breathless cameraman running through the side yard to apprehend the suspect for rebroadcast.

In most people’s lives this scene would end here. The man and dog would assume the rat will perish and they will retreat into the house. The dog will lie down and sleep while the man will retrieve his juice and go back to bed to watch ESPN Classic replaying the 1987 World Series. But you just know that it can’t end here because it has not yet gotten funny and embarrassing. Here we go.

The rat suddenly leaps about a foot into the air over a 10-inch retaining wall and begins to make his way up the ivy-covered hillside. Both the man and dog see this and it triggers a similar pursuit response in both species. There is a difference though: the dog is equipped for the chase and the man is homozygous recessive for common sense. It is not his dominant trait at times like these. It is foolhardy to leap, in just your underwear, off the hot tub onto the untended mess that is the ivy. No matter. I hurl myself onto the hillside, hellbent on finishing the job. The ivy is still damp from the morning dew and I promptly succumb to gravitational forces and am face down in the ivy. I try to stand, but can’t because it is too slippery. So I begin to crawl on my stomach as if I am crawling under barbed-wire under enemy fire on D-Day. The rat is leaping into the air every few feet as he makes his way up the hill. The dog is circling both of us desperately hoping I will give him guidance on how to proceed and barking at each leap of the rat. We proceed to hopscotch our way up the 30-foot hill.

At the top of the hill is a pile of pine branches I should have removed 4 years ago. The rat ducks into the pile while the dog and I crest the hill in very different states. He is excited but not winded with no visible damage. I would expect none since this adventure was solidly in the job description for being a dog. However, large middle-aged men in their underwear, weakened by cancer and the flu, should not be playing Great White Hunter crawling up a slick ivy-covered hill on their knees and elbows. I am breathless, dirty, wet and loving life.

So the only thing to do is wait the rat out. I assume a prone position with the gun aimed at the spot where the rat entered the brush pile. I still have all day and I need to catch my breath anyway. Soon, my breathing is normal and blood begins to flow back into my brain to once again fuel rational thought. I hear a plane overhead and begin to wonder what the pilot sees. Below him a pale man is splayed out on a green background highlighted by red underwear. The man is pointing a gun at an unseen target and appears to be unaware of the plane’s presence. I would assume that this sight is unusual for the pilot, but perhaps I just lack imagination.

Then I begin to recall that one reason for buying this house was the marvelous views to be seen from the hill I have just scaled. When one gazes down the hill, one can see the backs of all the neighbor’s houses including their entire backyards as well as the Livermore, San Ramon and Amador Valleys. The view is great up the hill too as it is an undulating green carpet at this time of year. That is unless perhaps there is a some nearly naked guy with a gun peering down into your kitchen window.

Now I have a problem. Actually now I recognize I have a problem as there have been numerous problems presented thus far. How do I gracefully exit this hill? I do not see anybody in the windows or in the backyards, but this may be due to them being in the phone with the Dublin Police Department in a secure location in their house. The dog is looking at me like I am crazy for having come this far and not finishing the job. His brown eyes are pleading with me to stick it out, be a man and deliver the rodent unto him. Nope, I am done. I roll back down the hill and proceed to abandon all hope of rescuing my tattered masculinity. I slink back into the house, retrieve my juice and head for the showers.

This was written by Peter on caringbridge.org website while was going through diagnosis, evaluation and treatment for cancer.  He had a knack for noticing and capturing in written form the humorous things in his every day life.  Note I said, “his”, as I think some of us might have tried to solve the loose golf ball situation at some point.

You may want to have some tissue handy as this story has caused many to cry from laughter.

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Since I golf quite a bit, I tend to have loose golf balls in the backseat of my vehicle which is a crew cab truck.. Actually there are quite a few as I am somewhat lax about corralling them from rolling around. Doesn’t bother me, but the neatniks tend to throw their hands up in misguided disgust. Since the truck is on a incline in the driveway, opening either back door of the vehicle can result in gravity tugging some balls onto the driveway. Since we are on a steep hill, they begin to bounce and roll down the hill. Unfailingly, I will panic and give chase on the assumption it may be the good balls and not the nicked-up ones. This usually happens early in the morning and often when I am in my slippers which are not noted for their suitability in high speed chases. One of two things happens. The best case scenario is that I quickly overtake the errant balls and retrieve with little danger to both my ego and flesh. More often, it involves a lengthy chase with me pursuing the balls far down the hill, kicking at them while at a dead run while educating any listeners on the finer points of Midwestern profanity. The end result is that I am at the bottom of the hill, ten houses away from the still open truck door. Often I am now winded, missing at least one slipper and trying to pull my lounging pants high enough to not get arrested for indecent exposure.

Usually, the rescued balls are not worth saving anyway and so the whole incident is for naught. The saving grace is that this oft-repeated suburban ballet goes unwitnessed so my dignity is tattered, but repairable.

So now you have the background for the actual reason I started writing this piece. Part of my rehabilitation is using a purple inflatable exercise ball for various gyrations intended to sleeken my profile. The exercises also serve to prompt the fruit of my loins to observe my interaction with the 30-inch exercise ball bears a remarkable resemblance to a walrus navigating a rocky shoreline. So early one morning recently, I had the exercise ball in the backseat of the truck and decided to perform my scripted maneuvers. As it was 4:35 in the morning, I saw little need to exit the house in more than my underwear. Clearly it was far too early for even the newspaper delivery let alone neighbors beginning their day. Just extract the ball from the truck and return indoors. I know my family is smiling right now because they already see it coming. I proceed to the truck and open the door. Smarter people than I could have predicted a shower of golf balls and they would have been correct. I proceed to chase the small white balls and quickly interrupt their forward momentum enough to catch them. I am startled as a relatively large purple thing bounces past me. The exercise ball has exited the truck and is rapidly increasing the distance between us. With little thought, I give chase. The 30-inch ball is leading the way down the hill followed by a 280-pound, pale white, large-breasted, nearly naked man running barefoot. Following the man is a group of reinvigorated golf balls responding to the earth’s gravitational field. Illuminated only by streetlights, the man is grateful for the cover of darkness and is buoyed by the thought that no one will view this scene. The flicker of approaching headlights disabuse him from his comfortable conclusion.

Saner types might have forgone rescuing the cavalcade of balls and retreated to thick foliage. Not our hero. He proceeds even more quickly in the futile hope that he can divert the balls to an awaiting yard and calmly retrieve them. As the headlights strike his generous torso, he realizes that his disheveled hair along with both his 8-inch abdominal scars combined with his large, pale, and damn near naked form might present a somewhat disconcerting vision to the oncoming driver. As the procession passed the open window of the laughter-wracked driver, I waved and smiled weakly as the purple ball lodged in a roadside bush. As I was unaware of the golf balls behind me, they too startled me as they bounded past me into the night. Still driven by some primordial chase response, I resumed the downhill journey and retrieved the golf balls.

Now I have to walk back up the hill with the various balls which will take me past the now stopped driver. Since my underwear had no pockets, I had to stuff what I could not carry into them. So endowed, I picked up the purple ball. I am now a brilliant shade of red from the exertion and breathing heavily. Having exceeded my humiliation quotient for the young day and having little choice, I persevered towards the stopped car. The driver was as courteous as possible despite the tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. Fortunately, he was lost on the way to picking up someone so I would never see him again. Ever helpful despite my appearance, I was unable to direct him to destination.

What to do and not do when a moth gets in your ear.

Submitted and experienced by FOCM member Denee Oakley

1. Don’t scream when it rams into your ear. It hurts your friend’s ear as you are on the telephone with her, and it scares the moth so it flitters around in your head.
2. Don’t let a loved one put a flashlight up to your ear. Moths apparently aren’t attracted to flashlights and don’t come flying out of your ear. Plus they get so far jammed down in your ear that you can’t see them with a flashlight anyway. They get scared and flitter around in your ear when the light shines in. You jump because of the flittering (and the disgusting fact that you have a bug in your ear) and they flitter more…..and it echoes in your head too.
3. By this time, don’t start panicking and thinking that not only is it lodged in your ear never to come out, it is probably scared to death so it’s pooping in your ear.
4. Finally, thought pops into head…..my best friend has a friend that had this happen to, except it was a cockroach. Let’s call her.
5. She retells the story of what happened to her friend (who ended up having to go the ER). Great. She is telling me steps to take as she is hysterically laughing at the current situation and saying “Oh my god, I have to tell my husband”.
6. Meanwhile, my husband is on the internet googling “how to get bug out of ear” with keys in hand to go to ER. Moth is still flittering around in head. Each noise made, aggravates it and it flitters more, feeling like it is getting deeper and deeper into the ear canal and probably pooping since it is scared to death.
7. Answer: a few pieces of grass. You shove a few pieces of grass in your ear, the moth grabs hold to it and flies out of ear.
8. The next day you will still have the nightmare of bug in ear….still feel it flittering, even though it is gone….still be afraid there is poop in there.

History 101 

For those that don’t know about history … Here is a condensed version:

Humans originally existed as members of small bands of nomadic hunters/gatherers. They lived on deer in the mountains during the summer and would go to the coast and live on fish and lobster in the winter.

The two most important events in all of history were the invention of beer and the invention of the wheel. The wheel was invented to get man to the beer. These were the foundation of modern civilization and together were the catalyst for the splitting of humanity into two distinct subgroups:

1. Liberals, and
2. Conservatives.

Once beer was discovered, it required grain and that was the beginning of agriculture. Neither the glass bottle nor aluminum can were invented yet, so while our early humans were sitting around waiting for them to be invented, they just stayed close to the brewery. That’s how villages were formed.

Some men spent their days tracking and killing animals to B-B-Q at night while they were drinking beer. This was the beginning of what is known as the Conservative movement.

Other men who were weaker and less skilled at hunting learned to live off the conservatives by showing up for the nightly B-B-Q’s and doing the sewing, fetching, and hair dressing. This was the beginning of the Liberal movement.

Some of these liberal men eventually evolved into women. Those became known as girlie-men. Some noteworthy liberal achievements include the domestication of cats, the invention of group therapy, group hugs, and the concept of Democratic voting to decide how to divide the meat and beer that conservatives provided.  

Over the years conservatives came to be symbolized by the largest, most powerful land animal on earth, the elephant. Liberals are symbolized by the jackass.

Modern liberals like imported beer (with lime added), but most prefer white wine or imported bottled water. They eat raw fish but like their beef well done. Sushi, tofu, and French food are standard liberal fare. Another interesting evolutionary side note: most of their women have higher testosterone levels than their men. Most social workers, personal injury attorneys, journalists, dreamers in  Hollywood and group therapists are liberals. Liberals invented the designated hitter rule because it wasn’t fair to make the pitcher also bat.

Conservatives drink domestic beer, mostly Bud or Miller. They eat red meat and still provide for their women. Conservatives are big game hunters, rodeo cowboys, lumberjacks, construction workers, firemen, medical doctors, police officers, engineers, corporate executives, athletes, members of the military, airline pilots and generally anyone who works productively. Conservatives who own companies hire other conservatives who want to work for a living.

Liberals produce little or nothing. They like to govern the producers and decide what to do with the production. Liberals believe Europeans are more enlightened than Americans. That is why most of the liberals remained in Europe when conservatives were coming to America . They crept in after the Wild West was tamed and created a business of trying to get more for nothing.

Here ends today’s lesson in world history.

This was written by Peter on caringbridge.org website while was going through diagnosis, evaluation and treatment for cancer.  He had a knack for noticing, highlighting and commenting on the humorous things in every day life.

The craft store was first. What it really was a series of themed areas where crafted items from crafty people were displayed for sale. Much of the merchandise would clearly be regifted after purchase, but I assume that somebody would garner some modicum of happiness out of the deal. Not surprisingly there were no other men to be seen. This was the time for me to represent my gender with pride. Recalling that I was down a testicle and just about ready for a training bra made such a task all the more daunting. Clearly, I needed to clear my brain from all distractions and so started with my bladder. The restroom lacked adequate signage so I was forced to try a few doors before I was successful. The room itself was adequate for the task except it had the tiniest urinal possible and it mounted very close to the floor. Was this a message that men were not welcome herein? Banishing that thought, I bent my knees sufficiently to give me a fighting chance to hit the target. Midway through the ritual, I had a horrifying thought. Given the small size and unusual mounting of the receptacle, perhaps I was relieving myself in fake urinal put there for decoration. I hadn’t noticed any signs of functional plumbing and it was difficult to even find the thing. Visions of an overwhelmingly embarrassing aftermath ensued and I ceased the process in midstream. Further inspection revealed that the pipes (also undersized) were sweating so there was water in them. A quick flick of the handle confirmed full functionality and I completed the ritual. Eschewing the assortment of the floral soaps, I exited quickly with some dignity still intact.

One quickly noticed that this store was more secure than Fort Knox. Signs were posted every few feet reminding the shopper that a closed-circuit video surveillance system was present. Some were even embroidered with lovely sayings such as “Free ride in a police car if you shoplift” and “We prosecute to the fullest extent of the law”. I don’t recall my grandmother employing such phrases in her needlework, but maybe I wasn’t really paying good attention. There were 6 video screens flickering behind the cash register as they scrolled through images from the various cameras. I had seen such systems in place on TV where the show concerns prison security, but never in a retail environment. My master plan to stuff my pockets with ribbon, enameled magnets, sparkly glue, pastel milk paints, and stencils was quickly shelved in favor of clean living with no parole officer involved. Since I doubted that street gangs routinely frequented this place in hopes of scoring high-end goods for resale at flea markets, I came to realize that the fairer sex might be a bit rougher than I thought. This conclusion would be reinforced at the yarn store, but I am getting ahead of myself.

I made my way to the stamping section where I tried to amuse myself among the hundreds of rubber stamps. I ended up kneeling next to my sister as we examined items on the lowest shelf with Kara 15 feet away similarly engaged. My sister has some orthopedic issues and we both would have some difficulty rising to our feet. She has the idea that we should both roll onto our backs, flail our limbs like upended turtles and cry out to Kara to help us up. Always one for public humiliation and glad to see Roberta was up for fun, I readily complied. We did our little routine and Kara shrieked in laughter at the sight of two well-rounded adults in their late 40s behaving like children. One video camera was trained squarely on us, but I didn’t think they would prosecute us as no crime other than impropriety had been committed. Paying the bill was a bit awkward, but tolerable. On to the yarn store where surely a more benign scene would be presented.

For those of you who have never been in a yarn store, it is usually populated by sedate women who are surrounded by bin after bin of yarns from all over the world. There is usually soft music with hot tea available next to the potpourri-scented burning candle. The atmosphere is uniformly hushed as serene shoppers poke about the yarn bins in hopes of finding the perfect color and texture of yarn with which to fashion the latest project. This store was different, very different. Located in a strip mall, it was nondescript from the street. Upon entering even a neophyte knitter such as myself could not help but be impressed by the selection of yarns. Then it got rapidly disconcerting. The predominant hair color of people in knit stores in usually gray and sometimes blue. The woman behind the front counter had magenta hair. A punk knitter? It is California so I remain calm and try to be inconspicuous. She is pleasant and friendly so I begin to wander about. Knitters usually gather in such stores for companionship as they convert woolen strings into sweaters, scarves, hats and mittens. Often there is a circle of chairs to facilitate polite conversation. I rounded a corner to find such a circle of chairs occupied by humanoids who had just left the bar scene in “Star Wars”. There were four women there arranged at the cardinal compass points, each wielding sharp needles with mildly glazed eyes intent upon their respective missions. Instead of older women wearing sensible shoes, these knitters had attitude. Two had the magenta hair so I took this as a tribal marking. One seemed to be Jabba the Hutt’s meaner sister who looked as if nothing had gone right for a very long time. Two were dressed in the typical Berkeleyesque organic, vegetable-dyed, natural fiber uniform with woven hemp sandals. The last of the quartet was a Stepford Wife type next to a Nordstrom’s bag full of yarn. I was quickly identified as a man (thankfully) and a non-knitter and just a quickly dismissed as unworthy of acknowledgement. Jabba’s sister kept eyeing me and I expected she was about to leap up, carve a pentagram in my forehead, wrap me in a woolen cocoon and then shove me aside to be consumed later. Then the conversation started. Each in turn would locate in a magazine some heinous example of poor knitting and proceed to rip its creator to shreds. Cattiness would be too mild a term for these estrogen-fueled diatribes. Even Kara and Roberta commented on the venomous exchanges. I quickly realized the utility of the seating arrangement as it enabled each participant to be seated with their vulnerable backsides shielded from each other. Brilliantly tactical chair placements kept the conversation and bile flowing in relative safety.

Now it gets weird. By this time I am seated in the unbroken Circle of Everlasting Condemnation though I have turned my chair slightly towards the door to facilitate a reasonable chance at escape if they turn on me. The hot topic was now the relative merits of non-participation in the National Hockey League’s upcoming All Star Game. Again, I am surrounded by a group of emotionally cannibalistic women who are knitting and discussing the finer points of a violent minor sport. Even during my Vicodin and Percocet-fueled delusions there was nothing like this. It seems some players chosen to participate in the game were opting out and were threatened with punishment by the League’s commissioner, Gary Bettmann. Most men don’t know who Gary Bettmann is, but this group is fully conversant in the topic. Maybe this was my opening to achieve a modicum of acceptance in the group. Each knitter had strong opinions on validity of each player’s excuse for non-participation. They described in detail the injury or personal situation that prevented the player from playing and proceeded to question the manhood of each in further detail. As I was in no position to defend myself in the manhood area should I be set upon in the conversation, I slunk away to find a restroom. What I found was a scented candle-lit homage to both traditional and homeopathic remedies for female ailments along with a generous selection of feminine hygiene products (some organic) surrounding the toilet. There was no urinal so this was easy. I instinctively knew that leaving the seat up would have resulted in almost instantaneous death so I left things as I found them and exited the store posthaste.

What did the elephant say to the naked man?

how do you breath through that thing?

submitted by FOCM Member Jon Matheus

HOW TO INSTALL A HOME SECURITY SYSTEM WHEN ON A BUDGET:

1. Go to a second-hand store and buy a pair of men’s used work boots, size
14-16 – or larger.
2. Place them on your front porch, along with several empty beer cans, a
copy of Guns & Ammo magazine and several NRA magazines.
3. Put a few giant dog dishes next to the boots and magazines.
4. Leave a note on your door that reads: ‘Hey Bubba, Big Jim, Duke and
Slim, I went to the gun shop for more ammunition. Back in an hour. Don’t
mess with the pit bulls – they attacked the mailman this morning and
messed him up real bad.  I don’t think Killer took part in it, but it was
hard to tell from all the blood.
P.S. – I locked all four of ’em in the house. Better wait outside.’

INSTALLATION COMPLETE!!!!
Thanks for using the  Redneck Security Company

While Peter had cancer and was receiving treatments either for the cancer or for the side effects caused by the treatments, he wrote on the www.caringbridge.org website.  What a great service that website provides people battling a variety of illnesses.

Here is one of Peter’s stories about having to prepare for a procedure that required a clean colon.

The only real humor out of the last 48 hours was my decision to undertake the internal cleansing at my son’s house thirty miles away from my home. The plan was to start the process at 3:00 p.m. and be all done by 8:00 p.m. so I could pick up my brother from the airport on the way home. This plan was not approved with my sister-in-law who is a nurse. She was later horrified that anyone would attempt the cleansing process away from home. It was supposed to be a 20-minute process according to the pharmacist. Not with Peter. I drank the liquid at 3:10 p.m. and expected it would be just like a commercial for Drano. The hours ticked by with no hint of action. By 5:00 I was worried. By 6:00 I was frantic. Fortunately, my brother called and his flight was delayed so he would rent a car and see me in the morning. I still have to get home with a very messy time bomb in my gut. By 6:30 we had some action and it continued every 20 minutes until I had to leave. The 30 minute trip was potentially too long to spare the upholstery in the car. So, being ever clever and highly resistant to public humiliation, I whipped out a garbage bag, punched holes for my feet and pulled on an ersatz diaper. My son was laughing so hard he could not breathe and insisted there be no light on the front porch on my departure to reveal my very uncool behavior. I made it about 5 miles when there were rumblings. Ok, think about something else. Baseball, NAFTA, voter registration by party in rural Alabama, anything. It worked and I sailed on accelerating to cut the time. Then visions of me appearing on “Cops” started and I pictured myself getting out of the vehicle wearing a garbage bag diaper for the camera. That sounded worse than anything else so I slowed down. Then I started to think how I would get out of the car at home in case the diaper’s purpose was fulfilled. I couldn’t park on the inclined driveway for fear of leakage and couldn’t get out normally for the same reason. The proposed solution was to sort of fall out of the seat sideways and take my chances on leakage. Then I would sneak around the side of the house, remove the offending garments and knock on the glass sliding door. My wife was spared all of this as nothing untoward happened. She later told me that she had visions of a very unpleasant cleanup job on the vehicle in the morning.

submitted by FOCM Member Stuart Munson

 

Joe was a single guy living at home with his father and working in the family business.  When he found out he was going to inherit a fortune when his sickly father died, he decided he needed to find a wife with whom to share his fortune.

One evening, at an investment meeting, he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  Her natural beauty took his breath away.  “I may look like just an ordinary guy,” he said to her, “but in just a few years, my father will die and I will inherit $200 million.”  Impressed, the woman asked for his business card and three days later, she became his stepmother.

Women are so much better at financial planning than men.

Peter Holthe, whose idea it was to create FOCM had a great sense of humor and loved to play practical jokes.  He especially liked to play them on people who were taking themselves or a situation far too seriously.   He also got himself into some funny situations and his lovely wife, Kara is allowing me to share this story and a couple others.

This story is true, told to me by  Peter in 2007.

One day in November, Peter Holthe went out golfing and got matched up with another solo player and as they played, they got to talking.  The other man explained that he was from out of town and was using rented clubs.  No doubt feeling intimidated by Peter’s crushing drives and better play, the guy began a steady and unrelenting complaint session hole after hole after hole.  How inferior the clubs were, how he was going to sue the golf course for renting such inferior equipment, how much better he is with his own clubs, how he would have made a 70 foot putt if he’d had his putter instead of the piece of junk he got as a rental.

So after the 18th hole when the scores were tallied up, Peter’s score was a 77.  The out of towner commented how that’s what he would have shot if he’d had his clubs.  To which Peter, now faced with a choice of buoying the man’s spirits or saying nothing (following the adage of “if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything”) did the humorous thing by taking the road less traveled and he replied:  “Actually, I am also from out of town, and these are my brother’s clubs, I usually play left-handed.