Labor Day Weekend I almost killed a man.

I was on the 11th tee at the local snobatorium when my good buddy, Bama Bing, stepped from behind a big old oak tree at the exact instant I hit my trademark “Bidgood Bob Scalded Dog Bullet Hook,” a shot referred to by some as a “Thurman Munson,” which is golfspeak for a “dead yank.”

Anyway, the Bullet Hook caught Bing between the eyes. He survived, thank God, but because nobody in our foursome (or even the beer cart girl) volunteered for mouth-to-mouth, he slipped into a coma.

I was at his side this morning when he woke up.

“What happened?” Bing asked, “I remember going behind that big oak because I had to, well, you know. What day is it?”

“December 8,” I replied.

“Damn. What’s happened? Where is everybody? Why are you the only one here?”

I don’t do post-coma recaps every day. But I did the best I could...

Here is the rest…

note - aubs and bammers gigged equally