“Any fool can make a rule, and any fool will mind it.”--Henry David Thoreau This is the very sort of elitist bullsh*t that President-elect Barack Obama has vowed to wipe out of our society once he takes office. It is a sad day in America when the fitness of a man is judged by the fabric of his pants, rather than the content of his character. But my outrage outraces my explanation, so I will start at the beginning. Some Guy Named Bob signed us up to play golf this morning at a local country club. It is a semi-private club, meaning that the snooty a-holes who own it, cannot generate enough cash flow from members alone to operate. They have had to resort to allowing the riff-raff off the street in to play on their course, just to make ends meet. How sad it must be to live in an enclave with the right sort of people, only to find your golf course infested with...with...with, well, people like me. The not-quite-upper-crust must toss and turn all night, getting out of bed from time to time to check their doors and windows, in fear that the Merle Sneeds of the world, didn't leave after eighteen holes, like they were told, and are lurking in the bushes, waiting for the opportunity to spring. "Did you hear about the Smiths?" "No, what." "A Sneed was found sleeping in their Range Rover. Right in their driveway." "I'm going to be sick, just sick." "I know, its awful." So, as I got ready this morning I threw on a Nike Golf shirt and one of my best pairs of jeans, still blue and no holes, since it was a bit too cool for shorts. I also put on my lightest jacket and off I went. I thought I cut a passable figure. I arrived at the course and went into the clubhouse to pay. The guy at the register looked at me and said, "Sir, we don't allow denim on our course." Longtime readers know two things about Merle Wayne Sneed. A. I don't like being told what to do, especially by a nitwit who thinks his position as 'cash register manner' at the semi-private golf club confers some sort of status upon him, and, B. I only wear jeans when donning long pants. In fact, the last pair of long pants I wore that weren't jeans, was at Daughter Sneed's wedding in March and that was under duress. I told the guy that apparently they didn't allow me either and I huffed off. Except that, when I headed back to my car, I saw a guy standing with three other guys on the first tee box and he was wearing, and I'm not making this up, denim pants. This, of course, required that I go back in the clubhouse and make a bit of a scene. I was duty bound, I really had no choice in the matter. I asked the cash register guy if the 'no denim' rule was for everyone or was it something about my pants in particular? He repeated that they have a strict 'no denim' rule. I suggested that he get outside asap before the whole enterprise came crashing down. First its denim and next you have hillbillies swimming in the water hazards. Good old Some Guy Named Bob, wearing a well-worn pair of corduroy pants that he bought at Goodwill, went inside to argue my case, even though I told him not to. All men may be created equal, but not all cotton pants are created equal. Blue corduroy good, blue denim bad. Cotton dyed blue good, cotton dyed blue bad. As I was loading my stuff back in my truck, The Seafood King and Some Guy Named Bob hustled out to tell me that the management had agreed to make an exception for this one time only and I was welcome to play. So I did, out of friendship. I asked Some Guy Named Bob to exclude either these yahoos or me when making future reservations. The Seafood King, who owns a group of restaurants, made an interesting point. These are not the times in which to chase away business. But then again, that may just be 'little people' thinking. P.S. North Carolina went for Obama and Missouri is poised to go to McCain. The final total will be 364-174, mighty close to 363-175. Not to gloat or anything. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky