Welcome to the Shorty Club!

In this cozy corner of contemplation, where the air is thick with the aroma of?bourbon?and the gentle wisps of a?cigar, we gather to muse upon life’s curiosities. Here, there are no rigid rules, no prescribed paths—just the ebb and flow of conversation, like the amber liquid swirling in our glasses.

Bourbon Whiskey: Our faithful companion, aged to perfection, whispers tales of oak barrels and distant Kentucky hills. Each sip carries the weight of history, the warmth of camaraderie, and the promise of shared secrets.

Cigar in the Ashtray: Resting gracefully, its ember glowing like a distant star, the cigar invites reflection. Its fragrant tendrils weave stories of contemplation, of pensive evenings spent unraveling the threads of existence.

And so, my fellow Shorty Club members, let us raise our glasses—whether they hold bourbon or simply the elixir of thought—and toast to the musings that bind us. Here’s to wit, wisdom, and the delightful randomness of it all. ??P.S. If you happen upon a particularly intriguing topic, feel free to share it with the club. We’re all ears (and taste buds).?

Birdies of Different Feathers

The field was a golfer’s dream: closely manicured and free from any pesky debris. The four men strolled along, parting the thick, humid air like they were Moses and it was the Red Sea. The sun, high and mighty in the sky, seemed to take a personal interest in roasting their necks. As they walked, they each sought out their own drives, contemplating their next shots with the seriousness of brain surgeons.

Two of the men were on the short grass, perfectly positioned to reach the heralded green in regulation. The third, however, found himself in the inevitable bunker and shouted, "I’m on the beach!" followed by a colorful selection of expletives that would make a sailor blush. Meanwhile, I was stuck in the rough, which was as thick as a jar of honey left in the cold. It was going to be a breeze hitting this next shot, despite being a mere 168 yards from the pin—yeah, right!

The two men in the fairway nonchalantly picked up a few strands of grass and tossed them into the air to test the wind. The light green blades floated gently in the nearly nonexistent breeze, and the players smirked at the apparent ease of their upcoming shots. Each took his turn and landed their ball softly on the green, leaving only a small dimple. The third man, still on the beach, might as well have set up a chair and umbrella. After several failed attempts, he finally picked up his ball and muttered, “F*** this game.”

Now it was my turn. The two guys on the green stood cockily by the cart, which was parked up near the pin. Each had a "come on already" look and were obviously getting impatient. I took out my iron and sized up the lie. Nestled in the heavy grass, I could barely see the red dot I had placed on my ball. It was as if the ball was being swallowed by the earth, and I was its savior. Determined to rescue it, I adjusted my grip, lined up the shot, took a deep breath, and swung. WHACK! The ball flew out of the thick turf like it had been launched from a giant slingshot. I could almost hear it screaming, "You saved me!" as it soared towards the pin.

I watched it fly and held my breath, silently urging it to “be right.” It began its descent and landed with a satisfying thump right on the green! Inside, my heart was doing a victory dance, but on the outside, I played it cool—just another day at the office. Two putts later, I was in the cup, while the two cocky guys had birdies on their cards. I cursed their egos under my breath as I returned to the cart.

But wait! As the two men stood on the green, patting themselves on the back, I saw it coming from overhead. In a clear formation, they flew over and made a quick turn as if on cue. The leader, a majestic creature, began a nosedive, quickly followed by his six companions. Like fighter jets on an attack mission, they swooped down, each releasing a payload of what could only be described as a massive amount of crap. The men tried to scramble, but it was too late. In an instant, they were pelted with last night’s dinner courtesy of the birds overhead.

As the birds flew off, my playing partner tipped his hat to them. The two targets lashed out a tirade of curses, wiping the green and white gunk off their shirts. Without missing a beat, my playing partner quipped, “You may have gotten birdies, but the birdies got you too!”

?