Comments on: Interoffice Confidential

By: Al

Al — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 21:16:45 +0000

Sport, that wrinkled care derides,
Hitting golf balls far and wide,
One flies o’er battlements and sees
Bosom’d high in tufted trees,
Where some beauty lies abed
And conks her on her comely head,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Oh sure, but play it as it lies

Steve’s friend Milton,
L’Allegro

By: Steve Alber

Steve Alber — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:45:56 +0000

Oh all right; you shamed me into it.

Should God create another green,
And I another chip afford,
Yet loss of strokes would never from my heart.
No,no, I feel the links of Pinehurst draw me!
Slice of my drive and hook of my bunker shot thou art,
And from my swing no Mulligan shall be counted,
No matter what Torisky says.

…w/apologies to John Milton and Milton Bradley

By: Al

Al — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 21:03:14 +0000

Girl of the Limberlost
her Way Down Upon the Swanee
Big Two-Hearted River aches
and a drowsy numbness pains
her head, Knock Three Times
After the Ball is Over the Green
Green Hills of Home, lying on the couch
of Dr. Freud, she say, Ouch.

By: Matsuo Basho

Matsuo Basho — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 17:17:03 +0000

The old pond,
My ball jumps in:
Plop!

By: Al

Al — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 04:30:46 +0000

What a cop-out! You’ve committed the entire corpus of English literature to memory, and you couldn’t think of a single apropos passage to butcher?

By: Steve Alber

Steve Alber — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 22:47:27 +0000

How very, very nice. Now have a warm cup of tea, all of you, and go back to the home. There’s a bingo tonight.

By: William Cullen Briarpatch

William Cullen Briarpatch — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 21:17:41 +0000

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thine errant Callaway?

(Made in America!)

By: Mark

Mark — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 15:44:49 +0000

You’re hired.

By: Lynn

Lynn — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 15:14:18 +0000

Cretins.

For, had the passions of thy heart burst out,
I fear we should have seen decipher’d there
More rancorous spite, more furious flying balls,
Than yet can be imagined or supposed.
But howsoe’er, no simple sister that sees
This jarring discord of family,
This shoving of each other on the course,
This facetious bandying of droll quotations,
But that it doth presage some ill event.
‘Tis much when golf balls are in siblingsâ€™ hands;
But more when satire breeds smart-assed derision;
There comes the rain of balls, then contusions.

Henry VI, Act IV, Scene 1

By: Carl Sandtrap

Carl Sandtrap — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 14:58:18 +0000

I may be a little hoarse,
but I think this strange