Writing Crap
I spent the better part of the last hour writing a post that you’ll never read. Boring. Insipid. Long.
And it didn’t go anywhere.
I wanted to tell a story about how I stood up to the neighborhood bully. The neighborhood being the golf course; the bully being Georgie, an ex-high school athlete.
Georgie insulted me once. He wasn’t joking. I didn’t take it well. I fumed and threatened and stood up to the bully.
Eventually, he apologized. Said that he was joking. I accepted his apology, but told him that I didn’t believe he was joking.
All was well with the world.
Several weeks later, on the back of the third tee, he was acting the bully again. He was telling stories about fights he’d been in or fights he wanted to be in or something like that. I forget.
I made an off-hand comment about loving to take him on one day.
Surprised, he squared off — not really threatening, and asked, “You think you can beat me up?”
I teed up my ball, smiled, and said, “Georgie. I can take you and not even hurt you.”
He knew I was serious. Georgie has been a gentleman to me ever since.
That was the crap I was trying to write.
If you liked that, maybe you will like this:
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