Sunday, October 23, 2016

An Unforgivable Sin

I used to bear malice towards none but that no longer holds true. I cannot and will not forgive and forget the pain the Republican candidate for President has caused me. What galls me beyond all else is that I am prohibited from playing golf on any course with the name you know who in it.

I mean I have withstood a lot. His face twisting, hand gesturing, finger pointing, fact contorting dystopic meanderings have often left me angered, bewildered, perplexed and just about every other angst ridden emotion one can contemplate. This bozo leading the free world. Please (not that kind of please but the ironic, rhetorical one).

But as that danger ebbs and we can begin to contemplate a day when we will not be saddled with the world according to him, as the sun begins to peek out between the clouds, as a warmth begins to reenter my system even as the cold of winter begins to descend, even at this moment when it seems we can begin to turn our thoughts to puppy dogs and puffy clouds that look just like the profile of Abraham Lincoln, even then his icy tentacles will grab a hold of me where it hurts the most (not there, this is an ironic, not literal turn of phrase).

For nearly all my life I have chased a golf ball down any fairway that my eye fancied and my wallet permitted. Of course (golf speaking) those that built a wall to keep away the undesirables (meaning those of insufficient weight, financially speaking) were well beyond my sight and contemplation, but all others might one day find me hacking and cursing within its boundaries (or possibly just outside its bounds).

But that uncontested truth is no more. No longer can my gaze fix upon that long five, it's green guarded by white deserts or deep rivers, nor my mind contemplate the swirling winds that bedevil me. My feet will not touch this terra firma nor my dollars depart my hands, if this patch of land contains even the faintest smell of you know who.

I have both friend and family who have sworn allegiance, at least of the dimpled Titleist kind, to layouts bearing the name of you know who. I have been invited as guest to some of these establishments and have, in days past, occasionally found myself within their confines. There is even, within striking distance of my home, one where the hoi polloi and their dinero (sorry, English only spoken when discussing you know who and his you know what) are welcome (muchas gracias).

But I have to draw a line in the sand that cannot be crossed (sorry for that Assad reference). My family would lose all respect for me if I meandered over to the dark side (metaphorically speaking) and allowed the one whose name I cannot mention, whom I so vehemently oppose, to benefit from my presence at one of the many golfing homes bearing his name. I would lose all respect for myself, for what is the worth of a man if his most deeply held beliefs can be cast asunder for a well shaped dog-leg, a pretty face of a bunker, or a perfectly placed hole (for those of you whose minds are now on the Bush bus, please get off at once)?

And so I will cast my vote, pledge my allegiance, get down on my knees and pray to many golfing gods but not this one. This is a bridge too far, a wall too high, a hazard too severe, to traverse.
A universe where I am constrained in my hopes, my aspirations. An America (and beyond) where there are places I cannot enter and people I cannot see. For that restraint upon my dreams, more than the other countless sins committed by you know who, for that there is no room for forgiveness.
And if one day I should falter, if the passage of time and the distance of distaste should dull my memory, if I should find myself thinking that it could not have been as horrid as the picture I painted, on that day may the golfing gods turn my driver into a snake and my golf ball into dust.
You know who, a stain upon this nation, who could never make this country great again in a thousand lifetimes, but who could make (or at least alter) a few pretty good courses. Attempted killer of millions of important dreams. And one of slightly less cosmic significance.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

The only response that comes to mind is " BooHoo". So another limousine liberal elitist can't find a place to parade around playing a game that, until recently, was limited to only wealthy white folk. It's a shame you can't play on a course with "you know her" name on it. But then, she , and the rapist never built anything with their own money. Perhaps you too can move to Canada when Trump is elected.
Just listened to that idiot Obama hint at the reasons we still haven't had a woman president. Does he forget that it was himself (I assume a man) who beat her in the primary 8 years ago that kept her from being the first woman to run for president?
Perhaps you can drown your sorrow drinking at a club not owned by the new President.
I'll buy.