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Page 4, Monday, December 28, 1992 The night after Christmas by Vance Crichton Twas the night after Christmas and boy what a house I felt like the devil and so did my spouse The eggnog and turkey and candy were swell But ten hours later, they sure gave me... The stockings weren't hung by the chimney with care The darned things were sprawled on the back of a chair The children were nestled all snug in their bed But I had a large cake of ice on my head And when at last I dozed off in a nap The ice woke me up when it fell into my lap Then for some unknown reason I wanted a drink So I started in feeling my way to the sink I got along fine till I stepped on the cat I don't recall just what occurred after that When I came to, the house was flooded with light Although under the table, I was high as a kite While visions of sugar plums danced in my head I somehow got up and then went to bed Then what to my wandering mind should appear But a miniature sleigh with eight tiny reindeer Then the sleigh seemed to change into a red fire truck And each reindeer tumed into a bleary-eyed buck I knew in a moment that it must be St. Nick I tried to call out but my tongue was too thick When the old devil whispered and shouted with glee While each buck pawed the earth and looked daggers at me Then he called them by name and the names made me shudder When I heard them I felt like a ship without rudder "Now eggnog, whiskey, cocktails and candy; Now fruit cake, cold turkey, cocktails and brandy; To the top of the house to the top of his skull Now whack away, crack away, with thumps that are dull Then in a twinkling I felt on the roof The prancing and and pawing of each cloven hoof How long this went on, I'm sure I can't say Though it seemed to me and eternity plus a long day And finally the night after Christmas had passed And I found that I really could think straight at last So I thought of New Years a few days away And I've made a vow no tempter can sway I am sticking to water and don't even need ice For there's nothing as tasty and nothing as nice The night after New Years may bother some guys But I've learned my lesson and brother I'm wise You can have your rich victuals and liquor that's red But what goes to my stomach won't go to my head So a big happy New Year to you and to all I'm back on the wagon and (shhhh) hope I don't fall submitted by A.H. 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GST must be added to all subscription purchases. | Dreessine- FOR. THE OCCASION Golf is a four-letter word I'm going to warn you right off the top. If you don't care for four-letter words, you'd bet- ter turn the page right now. This column is devoted to one of the dirtiest four-letter words ever to dog-paddle up to the surface of the semantic cesspool know as the English language. Still reading? Okay, you asked for it. This column is about golf. I know, I know . . . it's not exactly ideal golfing weather, what with the greens being covered with a half foot of white and kids playing hockey on the water hazards. But the kind of golf I want to talk about goes on year-round, rain or shine, blizzard or drought, day or night. I'm talk- ing about miniature golf. Has anyone ever come up with a dopier way to make us while away our excess leisure hours? Can you imagine Alexander the Great or Mary Queen of Scots creeping avidly along a swatch of indoor out- door carpeting? Chipping feeble shots off garden gnomes and JiRs in plastic palm trees? Driving their balls deep into sand traps the size of bathmats? Well, perhaps Mary Queen of Scots. The lady was an avid golfer. In fact, legend has it that she was out swatting a few balls just days after her husband died. But that's not callous. That's golfers. There is the story about the golfer who was out on the course with his wife and he came to his ball lying about 60 yards from the fourth hole. Trouble was, there was a huge barn between the ball and the hole. He was about to play around the barn when the caddy said "Hold on. I believe you could hit you ball through that barn window and clean through the open door on the other side. That should put you right on the green!" - Well, the golfer teed up and let go with a blistering drive. It went screaming through the barn window, caromed off a hay baler, rico- cheted off a barn beam and came straight back out hitting the golfer's wife right between the eyes and killing her instantly. Ten years later, the same duffer--older, grey- er, sadder and widowed, but still golfing --found himself exactly the same situation: 60 Arthur Black of the same massive barn. His caddy said: "why don't you try hitting your ball through that barn window there? It'd go right through the open door on the other side and put you right on the green!" The sad old golfer dropped his iron, fell on his knees and began sobbing uncontrollably. The caddy rushed over to comfort him. "What's the matter?" "Ten years ago my wife and I were right here" groaned the golfer between sobs, "I had the same shot . . . and I triple-bogeyed the hole!" But hey, I digress. I wanted to talk about miniature golf. I especially = wanted to try and figure out . why it's so popular. The game was invented back during the First World War at Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. A landowner by the name of James Barber thought it was too hot to walk a full 18 holes, so he Be called in some workmen and had them lay out a ; shrunken course on his front lawn. The madness spread. 4 By 1930, you could find 4 million North Americans hunched over their putters on miniature courses around the country. The game's just celebrated its 75th birthday and it looks like it's more popular than ever. So what's the attraction? Well, it's easy to be good at Miniature Golf. You can play with your kids, your granny, a war amp--anybody. You don't have to be a youngster either. There's a guy in Myrtle Beach who regularly beats the cleats off all comers on one of the towns 50 miniature golf courses. He is 93 years old. Old duffers need mini golf for the day when real golf gets too hard. You heard the story about the two oldsters, Eddie and Moe, who played as a team? Eddie, 76, could drive like a pro, but his eyesight was bad. Moe 81, couldn't hit worth a darn, but his eyes were as keen as an eagles. So Eddie tees up and smacks a beauty. And Moe shades his eyes as he watches the ball soar. "Did you see that Moe?" asks Eddie. "Yeah" says Moe, "Real good". "Well", says Eddie, ""Where did it go?" Moe pauses and then says "I forget." . . ».