Ted and Linda play golf together every Saturday morning. One week they reach the eighth green, both playing well and enjoying the round immensely, when Linda clutches her chest and crumples in a heap.

“Help me, Ted!” she shouts. “I think I’m having a heart attack!”

“Hang in there, honey!” Ted exclaims. “I think I saw Dr. Johnson on the course earlier.”

Ted drops his putter, hops in the cart and floors it, tires squealing on the cart path as he speeds away. Minutes later he returns, retrieves his putter from the green and begins lining up to putt.

Linda, still writhing in agony, screams at him. “I’m lying here dying and you’re still playing?!”

“It’s gonna be OK, honey,” Ted replies in a sweet, calm voice. “I found Dr. Johnson back on the third hole and he’s on his way.”

“Great,” Linda says, her anger subsiding just a bit. “How long till he gets here?”

“Shouldn’t take long,” Ted assures her. “All the groups behind us are going to let him play through.”

A letter sent to a famous advice columnist:

Dear Ann,

I’m in desperate need of help in handling a situation I’ve never experienced before. For several months I’ve wondered if my wife might be cheating on me. All the classic signs were there: I answer the phone and the caller quickly hangs up, an unusual number of “girls’ night out” occasions with anonymous “friends from work.” You know the drill.

I know I should confront my wife about this, but I hadn’t broached the subject because I was afraid of being right or, possibly even worse for our marriage, being wrong. Then last night she went out with “the girls” again and told me not to wait up. Well, I did anyway. I hid in the garage to see if it was really “the girls” who brought her home.

I was crouching behind my golf clubs and happened to notice a crack in the shaft of my driver. Is this something my pro shop can fix, or will I have to get the driver reshafted?

Sincerely,

Shafted in Sarasota