Sitting in a Condo in Phoenix, Arizona

Sitting in a condo in Phoenix, Arizona

watching the Waste Management TPC (whatever that means)

Tournament, in a condo, which broke off from Conrad

awhile back and is, in reality, a little short of prime but

better than choice. Phil hit a drive that stopped just short of

the green and settled into the rough.  Sheesh, Phil.

 

Someone sits in a condo in Phoenix, Arizona

watching the Waste Management TPC (He knows what that means)

Tournament.  He has a really nice condo, which didn’t break off from

anything or anyone but which cost in the one percent.

 

Two guys watch a pro in iridescent yellow pants

tossing future memorabilia into the stands while they

wait for Phil now in deep shadows to make just one

more birdie to make it into the weekend so they can both have

the thrill of watching Phil, the Thrill, and the

guy with the iridescent yellow pants when they

 

all wear green because the CEO of Waste Management (kind of conjures

up images of city dumps and stuff not particularly appropriate to top flight pro

golf tournament, but, hey, you take what you can get to keep the

the thing going) wants everyone watching to know how environmentally

 

friendly his company is. Phil marches, humbly, through the tunnel,

smiling sheepishly while the crowd at sixteen is screaming bloody murder

in the sunset as Phil sets up and pulls out a pitching wedge for a hundred-

eighty some yards that he really has to kill and puts it four feet from the pin.

Then Yellow Pants puts it four feet from the pin; then Black Shirt puts

it four feet from the pin and the whole rowdy crowd

 

goes bonkers in the deep shadows. Phil buries it. Black Shirt gets booed. Yellow Pants

watches it roll around the edge of the cup and hears a collective sigh from the shadows.

Wait a minute; the guy in the one percent condo isn’t watching his 64-inch, high-definition,

plasma T.V.  He’s in a corporate box right above the sixteenth tee sitting quietly and calmly

while everyone outside the corporate boxes bellow like Banchees. The Ninety-nine

percenter turns to his wife and

 

asks, “Dear, would you like another glass of the exquisitely dry, citrus-y Pinot Grigio in the

beautiful, black box?”