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As our 11th walk-a-bout comes to a close…
so begins my duty to recite this prose.

Come with a ‘stache was this years theme…
And bring an appetite so it would seem,
For food was brought from tribes near and far…
And I got to tell you — we look bizarre.

So who shall be the recipient of this prestigious honor?

Chief Bullseye? Or Chief Stilted Baby Fly?
No, neither shall it be DTI.

How about Chief Silver Elk, long a bridesmaid and finally a bride!
Nah, ‘cause something tells me he is in for one bitchin’ mustache ride!

Maybe Talking Bull with whom I struggled through alternate shot,
Picking him would be wrong, so I cannot.

Chief Hands Like Feet forgot his stage name…
Perhaps the award is his I will proclaim.

Chief Turkey’s golf game left him full of anger…
And at the poker table it’s nothing but clangor…
So the choice is obvious, right?
Not quite.

For you see the trophy sits high atop a shelf in my garage.
Forgotten it was, left behind.
With a wife nine months pregnant you could say I’ve lost my mind.

Without a trophy to present there can be only one winner,
And I need to wrap this poem up ‘cause it’s time for dinner.

The Broken Arrow Sportsmanship Trophy is mine to keep.
Bleep!!!

And so our time together draws to a end…
With any luck I’ll not repeat this trend.

Ode to me.

I can’t tell you how much this reminds me of Tim and Todd. I’ve already ordered two; I’ve heard they’re going fast. View the sales presentation now and order one today.

Oh, and uh, you’ve got a little freem spar ober. Just so you know.

[Update: Turns out this story gets even better. The text from the video was originally written in 1955 by an employee at GE who (apparently) was out to prove that his boss was an idiot. He submitted it as an actual product and it was approved and inserted into the GE catalog that year. You can read a Wikipedia entry on the whole affair, which also has a link to the text from the catalog. Amazing.]

The following is a transcript of the presentation speech prepared by Speaks with Fish! as he handed over the Broken Arrow Sportsmanship Award. As is the custom of the tribe, it arrives in the form of a poem…

As our 11th walk-a-bout comes to a close…
so begins my duty to recite this prose.

Ode to me.

I, for one, am not quite sure what to make of this. I think you’re all aware by now that the wiretapping program instituted by the Bush Administration has been declared unconstitutional. What you may not know, however, is that through some of my connections at the NSA I was able to obtain the following voicemail message left for our illustrious Chief from a company called PornStach USA.

While I am certainly ready to draw my own conclusions from this message, I felt that I should leave it up to each of you to draw your own. And, perhaps, give the Chief a chance to respond on his behalf before he’s drawn and quartered as a yellow-bellied, scum-sucking fraud.

But that’s just me.

[Listen to the (incriminating) voicemail message]

Fookars,

I have read with interest the remarks of my brothers. While I’m experiencing  some degree of trepidation about my life right now (I’m homeless, as most of  you know), I am looking forward to breaking bread and drinking firewater with  you all. And while I appreciate your concern regarding my welfare, rest assured  that steps have been taken to ensure compliance with all the rules as set forth  by the honorable Chief and agreed upon by all in attendance. 

In other words, I’m way ahead of all of you. Attached is a photo from our trip  to Michigan last weekend.

Yours in the faith and reverence for all that is hairy (or not, depending on  your personal preference),

Chief Stilts

I had the pleasure of playing golf yesterday with the Chief and Fish! in an outing to celebrate our allegiance to Indiana State University. (Those of you who were asked to participate and turned us down should know that it turned out to be a beautiful day and a great time. So screw you, too.)

Anyway, in the course of conversation, the subject of the Walkabout came up. Turns out there has been next to no response from the field about their attendance this year. In addition, there have been very few deposits turned in to solidify and reserve a spot in the event. Being the Chief, having already made the deposit on the cabin, and being the type of person that doesn’t mince words, Bullseye was heard to remark:

“I’m closing the field at eight men this year.”

So, believing him to be a man of his word, Fish! and I gave him our deposit. We’re in.

Are you?

Because we’d run out of beer and the shed was getting boring, Broken Arrow declares play must resume despite the torrential downpour. On the very next hole, he finds his ball lying in a bunker that is completely covered with casual water, in some places deep enough to drown the Chief. He argues that he should be able to take a drop outside of the bunker, thereby greatly increasing his odds of not being completely covered in grinding wet sand.

Chief Hands Like Feet, being a stickler for the rules, states that Arrow must drop his ball in the bunker, but he can drop it where the water is most shallow, thereby ensuring an outstanding comic moment whence the club comes into contact with three inches of water, a bunch of sand, and (just maybe) the ball.

Who’s right?

In a four-ball match, Talking Bull and Duke, Duke Goose are shooting steely-eyed glares at Running Tongue and Berry Funderwatch. With Talking Bull 10-feet from the hole but lying 8 and Duke 12-feet away lying 3, Talking Bull winks at Duke and says, “Freemspar ober der.”

Having uttered this, he aims toward a spot a foot behind Duke’s ball and away from the hole, in an attempt to have his next stroke aid Duke’s ability to make his par. (Not realizing, of course, that Duke has been drinking regular old Milwaukee’s Best and has been asleep whilst all this was taking place.)

Running Tongue says, “You slimy bull-talking sonofabitch! You can’t do that!”

Hmmm… Is this enough information to determine which teams wins this hole?

With his ball on the green and being his turn to putt, Fish! walks up to the hole, removes the flagstick, and lays it on the ground near the hole. He walks back, takes aim, and – being the supremely confident putter that he is – worries not about hitting the indian logo emblazoned on flag and strikes his putt.

Chief Turtle Thunder, having missed a few Fooks in his time and being unaware of Fish!’s outstanding accuracy with his putter, mistakenly fears that Fish!’s putt might strike the flagstick. He walks over and moves it out of the way.

Skipping Skunk, having just emerged from the woods, shouts “Someone’s getting a two stroke penalty!”

Is he right? And, if so, who?

Things were looking great, your swing was grooving, you’d been drinking “energy beer” for two solid days, and the putter was rolling like a fat girl in flour.

And then the sky opened up. Torrential downpour. Biblical proportions. (Something like Kentucky.)

Unable to see your clubs, let alone hold on to them, you pull out a small towel and wrap it around the grip, offering some degree of stickiness, and play on.

Is this allowed?