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Comment from: Brandon Tucker [Member] Email
Sweet Jesus, I experience an experience CB rants about maybe 1/100 times I golf. He must play in a rough place or is a total grizzled pessimist.

I don't believe in handicap tournaments so sandbagging is not an issue for me, but I can see how it might be a nuisance.

Getting annoyed by golfers who talk in your setup? Do two things, back off the ball and say shut the F up, or zone out and hit it anyways. If you can't concentrate its your fault.

Slow groups who won't let you play through usually have about two holes to step aside before warning shots are unloaded on them.

Don't be a victim, take action!

That isn't to say I'm siding with you, Ron Mon. Your Road Hole advice was still worthless.

11/02/06 @ 20:26
Comment from: Chris Baldwin [Member] Email
RonMon, at least this blog is almost comprehensible. Almost. That’s a start though. I can imagine how tough it is when all the high schoolers are leaving their Elmer’s glue containers open in your classroom.

But is it really a reason to hate on Maxwell just because he chose to steal my initials rather than your ridiculous moniker. Keep that head up. I’m sure WKW will hire a new RonMon sometime.

11/02/06 @ 22:25
Comment from: Ron Mon [Member] Email
Elmer's Glue has no odor, amigo. I think it's the rubber cement to which you are hearkening back. I don't hate on anyone, just enjoy the repartee. And, as with Shivas Irons, stop looking for another RonMon; the mold was used but once.
11/02/06 @ 22:51
Comment from: William K. Wolfrum [Member] Email
It just occurred to me. I bet no one ever gave RonMon an invitation to TravelGolf's day-long seminar: "The Paragraph: It's your Friend"

I think we need to make that happen. Senor Mon is losing too many readers to hynoptization from reading 625-word paragraphs.

11/03/06 @ 06:40
Comment from: Lester Hinson [Visitor]
I feel the same way, William. This RonMon must be a wannabee Faulkner. Rreminds me of how her voice would not cease, it would just vanish. There would be the dim coffin-smelling gloom sweet and oversweet with the twice-bloomed wistaria against the outer wall by the savage quiet September sun impacted distilled and hyperdistilled, into which came now and then the loud cloudy flutter of the sparrows like a flat limber stick whipped by an idle boy, and the rank smell of female old flesh long embattled in virginity while the wan haggard face watched him above the faint triangle of lace at wrists and throat from the too tall chair in which she resembled a crucified child; and the voice not ceasing but vanishing into and then out of the long intervals like a stream, a trickle running from patch to patch of dried sand, and the ghost mused with shadowy docility as if it were the voice which he haunted where a more fortunate one would have had a house. Out of quiet thunderclap he would abrupt (man-horse-demon) upon a scene peaceful and decorous as a schoolprize water color, faint sulphur-reek still in hair clothes and beard, with grouped behind him his band of wild niggers like beasts half tamed to walk upright like men, in attitudes wild and reposed, and manacled among them the French architect with his air grim, haggard, and tatterran. Immobile, bearded and hand palm-lifted the horseman sat; behind him the wild blacks and the captive architect huddled quietly, carrying in bloodless paradox the shovels and picks and axes of peaceful conquest. Then in the long unamaze Quentin seemed to watch them overrun suddenly the hundred square miles of tranquil and astonished earth and drag house and formal gardens violently out of the soundless Nothing and clap them down like cards upon a table beneath the up-palm immobile and pontific, creating the Sutpen's Hundred, the Be Sutpen's Hundred like the oldentime Be Light. Then hearing would reconcile and he would seem to listen to two separate Quentins now-the Quentin Compson preparing for Harvard in the South, the deep South dead since 1865 and peopled with garrulous outraged baffled ghosts, listening, having to listen, to one of the ghosts which had refused to lie still even longer than most had, telling him about old ghost-times; and the Quentin Compson who was still too young to deserve yet to be a ghost but nevertheless having to be one for all that, since he was born and bred in the deep South the same as she was-the two separate Quentins now talking to one another in the long silence of notpeople in notlanguage, like this: It seems that this demon-his name was Sutpen-(Colonel Sutpen)-Colonel Sutpen. Who came out of nowhere and without warning upon the land with a band of strange niggers and built a plantation -(Tore violently a plantation, Miss Rosa Coldfield says)-tore violently. And married her sister Ellen and begot a son and a daughter which-(Without gentleness begot, Miss Rosa Coldfield says)-without gentleness. Which should have been the jewels of his pride and the shield and comfort of his old age, only-(Only they destroyed him or something or he destroyed them or something. And died)-and died. Without regret, Miss Rosa Coldfield says-(Save by her) Yes, save by her. (And by Quentin Compson) Yes. And by Quentin Compson.
11/03/06 @ 06:55
Comment from: Ron Mon [Member] Email
Ahh, jealousy! Rather than criticize the writer, might I suggest that you two light-weights weigh in on the topic? Might be of more merit to our readers.
11/03/06 @ 09:04
Comment from: Kiel Christianson [Member] Email
I'm with Ron & Brandon: All I play is daily fee golf, yet I can count on one hand the times any of the atrocities CB lists have happened during a round. What the hell kind of public courses does he play at?
11/03/06 @ 10:29
Comment from: CB MAXWELL [Member] Email
"He's been told it is Charmin?" Well, I must confess to actually using toilet paper, having moved on from using leaves. It must have been a slow news day for RM, to resort to becoming my "critic at large." In looking over his past posts it seems that the world simply is not up to RM's high standards. I look forward to the day when I am in the foursome following RM, so I can deploy some of his ideas on courtesy.
11/03/06 @ 12:38
Comment from: ronmon [Visitor] Email
If you follow my crew on the course, better put on your track shoes. We play fast, politely and publicly. Regarding the insinuation that I have high standards, I resent that remark. I recently learned how to spell standards, and am still not completely comfortable with the term. Congratulations on the evolutionary step of adopting TP...it's the best, don't you think?
11/03/06 @ 13:54

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