The Blind Firemen
A priest, a doctor and an engineer are on the golf course, stuck behind a particularly slow foursome.
“What’s the deal with these guys?” the engineer huffs. “We’re waiting 10 minutes on every shot.”
“I agree,” says the doctor. “They should just let us play through.”
Just then, the priest spots the superintendent driving by and stops him. “Hey Gary,” the priest says, “the group in front of us is painfully slow. Do you know who they are?”
“Oh yeah,” Gary replies. “They used to be firefighters, but were all blinded saving our clubhouse a few months back. We let them play for free any time.”
The men go dead silent, ashamed at their ill will toward the blind firefighters. Finally, the priest pipes up. “That’s awful,” he says. “I’ll say a prayer for them tonight.”
The doctor nods and adds, “I have a friend who’s an ophthalmologist. I’ll see if he can do anything for them.”
After a pause, everyone looks at the engineer. “That’s a sad story,” he says. “But why can’t they just play at night?”
A Real Sand-Bagger
After turning 80, Albert decided it was finally time to join a country club. The members greeted their new friend with open arms, seeing an easy mark for their weekly money games.
“I still hit the ball pretty good,” Albert told them, “but I have a hard time getting out of the sand.” This gave his fellow golfers even more reason to lick their chops – the course was notorious for its heavily bunkered layout.
A 40-something member named Chuck invited Albert for a weekday round, and the old man happily accepted. On the first tee, Chuck suggested they play a $5 Nassau. Albert heartily agreed.
“I’m a 10 handicap,” Chuck informed him. “How many strokes do you need?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Albert insisted. “Honestly, I’d rather lose playing straight-up than win getting a handout.”
Chuck was surprised, but gladly went along. A few holes into their round, it was clear that Albert could hold his own. In fact, they finished the front nine all square – and Albert hadn’t visited a single bunker.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Chuck thought to himself, “until he finds the sand.”
Chuck was right. On the 17th hole, Albert knocked his approach shot into the deepest bunker on the course. He entered the pit, dug in his feet and blasted the ball out. It trickled to within inches of the cup.
Chuck was baffled. “Albert,” he said, “didn’t you tell everybody you had a hard time getting out of the sand?”
“I do,” Albert replied as he reached up toward Chuck. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”
