It was a good day for golf in Memphis: A crisp, clear day with perfect visibility and virtually no wind. The birds were singing, the crowd was polite, and the fairways were perfectly manicured. A certain pro golfer, famous for his heavy drinking, scene-stealing antics, and club-throwing volatility, stepped up to the green, but not to putt. He just wanted to watch his opponent a little more closely. The larger-than-life golfer watched as his opponent lined up his putt and prepared to drop the white ball into the hole. But just as the putter was about to connect, the man watching him let out a thunderous, impossibly juicy round of flatulence that sounded like someone ripping three yards of calico. The fartiste was given a steep fine for unsportsmanlike conduct. By this point, all readers not intimately familiar with Memphis golf lore are probably assuming that the gaseous golfer in question was none other than our own John Daly. Wrong.
During the 1958 Memphis Golf Invitational, the pooter was the legendary Tommy Bolt. The putter remains unknown.
See, folks. Big John's not bad. He's just carrying on a long-forgotten tradition. And making up for all that time it was lost.
It's probably lame to mention the mayor's most recent remarks concerning certain scaly reptiles known to hide in tall weeds. They've been in every newspaper and blog and on every TV news program. By all rights they have no place among the esoterica of Fly on the Wall. And yet it's just too tempting to say something like, "Get these motherf&@*&$g snakes off his motherf&@*&$g honor," or to recall the immortal words of W.C. Fields, who wisely noted, "You should always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite. And furthermore, always carry a snake."