Sitting In A Safe House With The Cart Girl

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. What a wild weekend it was, my friends. The NBA playoffs are officially underway…round one of the NHL playoffs is almost finished…and there’s talk of a professional women’s hockey league! But I know everybody is wondering if what happened at the Alan Thicke Celebrity Golf Invitational is true…and if it is, where am I hiding?

As you all found out on Friday, I was stuck with a group of absolute losers for this weekend’s charity tournament. All I had to look forward to was a day of carrying those slouches on my back, and trying to avoid getting trapped in a conversation with Rick Dees. I thought, what better balm for the pain of a bad day than my old buddy alcohol? And when the drink cart girl is wearing short shorts and likes your early work, what more reason do you need?

So we’re on the eighth tee, and Dees has been trying out material for his radio show on me all day. I think he had some bit about airplane food or women shopping or some mud like that. I mean, the guy would not shut up. Anyway, we’re on the eighth tee, and after watching my three partners hit their shots into the trees, I knew I had to stripe one down the middle for us to even have a chance at par.

I get the club to the top of my backswing, and Dees starts laughing at his own joke about bad women drivers. That punk Emmanuel Lewis started laughing like it was the funniest thing since Webster. I hate little kids. With my concentration shattered, I slice my ball over the trees and into the next fairway. I turned around to shove my driver my down Dees’ throat when we heard agonized screams from the adjacent fairway. The same fairway that my tee shot had just flown into.

I ran over to the scene to make sure I didn’t hit somebody important like Jackie Mason. A crowd was surrounding a man lying on the ground writhing in agony, so I parted the people to take a look for myself. Wouldn’t you know it? It was Alan Thicke. My ball was sitting on the ground next to him, and he was bleeding from his temple. Color me guilty.

Despite the obvious pain he was in, Thicke managed to point me out as the culprit. I tried to deny it, but the fact that the ball next to Thicke’s head had "Bumpers" written on it didn’t help my case. So I kicked him in the shin to shut him up and started looking for a way out of the mess. As luck would have it, the drink cart girl was motoring by at the time. I flagged her down, and she darted right over. Just another benefit of being a good tipper.

I hopped in the cart, told her to step on it, and we took off as fast as that cart would let us. I explained the situation to her during the drive, and she told me she knew of a safe house just off the course – her folks’ time share. We made it there safe and sound. And we’ve been making love ever since. Not a bad weekend after all.

By the way, if you’re concerned for Alan Thicke, you can send flowers to room 417 at Cedars Sinai hospital. He’ll be there for the next week or so. He’s pretty banged up from what I hear, but don’t worry ladies, his hair will be just fine.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman