Golf at B. Deer; Lunch; Dessert

I flip A's phone closed with disgust, vowing that this, my 4th phone call to B, will be the last. His lack of consideration is despicable. I am wearing jean shorts by Levi Strauss, undershirt by Hanes, tennis shoes by New Balance and a charcoal gray polo by American Eagle.

A, predictably, is foolishly wearing cargo shorts, polo, ballcap and necklace, all by Abercrombie & Fitch. What a rube. As we pull into the parking lot of the golf course, my phone, an Apple iPhone, vibrates. B has decided to join us.

This morning's episode of The Golden Girls involved the death of a close friend of Sophia, and the resultant tumult this causes in the Devereaux/Nylund/Petrillo/Zbornak household. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing as good-natured Rose (Betty White) tried to consult the mourning, yet ever-fiesty Sophia (Estelle Getty). My laughter was sufficient to draw the attention of Buddy and Brisco, my prized companions. They joined me in my mirth. The Golden Girls is one of few television programs for which all principal actors were awarded Emmy Awards for their work on the show.

After a grueling round of golf, during which I correct B's freshman attempt at a swing and advise A on the proper attire for a first date (jeans, a polo shirt and well-worn Doc Martens), we decide to eat at the golf course bar.

After mentally filing away the hardbody waitress who coquettishly winks at me, we sit at the bar where J, a mutual acquaintance, is bartending. I order my usual, Pepsi-Cola on the rocks with a twist, and scan the room. Tigerwoods. Examples of poor taste and low breeding asail my sense, and I have to focus intently on the varnished wood of the bartop, drumming my knuckles in a soundless, frictionless dance, to avoid vomiting on the hardbody waitress, who continues to prance through my field of vision.

On J's recommendation, I order the Ribeye, medium-well. A orders a reuben, and I fight back a sudden urge to slash his throat with the available butter knife. B, ever the simpleton, finally decides upon the pork chop sandwich and immediately begins to second-guess himself. I laugh good-naturedly at his indecision, all the while envisioning the unmarked grave I have prepared for his internment at some future date.

Our food arrives, as does the hovering spectre of J, who, in a moment he will one day regret, actually eats a bite of my steak. A especially is besides himself with glee, and I force myself to breathe slowly and easily until the red vision passes. I cut into the steak and begin to eat, savoring the texture and juiciness of the meat, the taste of life recently extinguished. Four bites later it is finished, garlic mashed potatoes the only consolation prize. I patiently await my companions, while motioning impatiently for my fourth refill.

"Herestothenight," I challenge B, who responds with a charcteristic nod of servile obsequience before continuing his dining. Tiring of such an easy foe, I turn to A, who is doing his best to soil the reputation of all diners in this eatery by actually ordering a beer or a 'wolfkiller,' as he calls it.

Our meals finished, J returns, menu in hand. I don't hear his query at first, concentrating as I am on the half-empty bottle of ketchup which has been, incredibly, left turned upside down on it's cap.

"...dessert?" J's jovial voice breaks through the fog of war, and I quickly reassert my command of the situation, demanding to see the menu. Despite the wavering of my companions, I confidently accept J's suggestions of the "Schammy," which quickly arrives.

It is beautiful. Fully five warm chocolate cookies anchor the monstrosity, while vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, bits of Snickers bars and chocolate sauce adorn the dish. Hesitantly, my compaions began to spoon at the mixture, while I confidently tuck in.

The dish nearly gone, J returns, impressed with my appetitie. Though A and B begin to flag, I push on, finally devouring the final mouthful. Pulling out my well-worn platinum credit card, I am proud of what I have accomplished.