one time, playing at 'shenny by the subs,' a gentle, friendly old ranger catches up to us for the shirt thing. 'gentlemen, it is course policy that all wear appropriate attire. please put ur collared shirts back on.' now, it was sooo freakin hot and humid -smarmy- that management was constantly running around filling the water stations, and it was a small miracle that we didn't see more clubs flying out of peoples mitts. we call days like that 'a smoker,' as in smokin hot. jetski dude, who almost never gives guff or blowback to anyone sez to the ranger 'hey bud, what's this shot i have? aboot 200 yards or so? how aboot iffn u let us slide when i put it within 15 feet?' the ranger, a fine fellow, laughs and sez 'i gotta see this, so if u do that, ur in. i'll just tell the others that u have a skin condition, or something like that.'
jetski boy casually picks out a six iron, plink, plank, plunk. dribble dribble, aboot 9 feet or so in. ranger guy is quiet. then i hit. zoom! pert near hit every obstacle on the course, as it winds up in the sand of another hole.
hey! at least i can find it!
ranger guy, a good sport, sez to me 'put your shirt on.'
all cracked up laughing, and i put my shirt on. for a few holes as the police stopped patrolling cuz it was so dang hot, and apparently, they didn't want to leave the ac in the clubhouse anymore that day.