"Golf is the game that turned the cows out of the pasture and let the bull in," informs the Beecher City Journal.—T. O. White, Champaign-Urbana News Gazette
Small girl (as golfer in bunker pauses for breath): "He stopped beating it, Mummy. I think it must be dead."—Cambridge Daily News, England
From up New England way comes word of the first casualty from one of those powered golf carts. Fellow wasn't badly hurt, it seems. But he just about wrecked a wisecrack coined by Changing Times: "The advantage of golf is that it gives a person a chance to be a pedestrian without the danger of being run over."
Golf is a lot of walking, broken up by disappointment and bad arithmetic.—Scholastic Coach
I think that I shall never see a hazard rougher than a tree— a tree o'er which my ball must fly if on the green it is to lie; a tree which stands that green to guard, and makes the shot extremely hard; a tree whose leafy arms extend to kill the mashie shot I send; a tree that stands in silence there, while angry golfers rave and swear. Niblicks were made for fools like me, who cannot ever miss a tree.—Detroit Purchaser
An inebriated golfer staggered up to the first tee and asked the caddie, "Whisch way is the hole?" Pointing toward the flag, the caddie handed him his driver.
"No, no!" said the golfer. "Gimme m' trusty brassie." He took a big swing, and the ball dribbled a short distance down the fairway.
The drunk insisted on using his brassie again. This time he swung with all his might. The ball hooked into the woods, ricocheted off a tree, landed square on the green and rolled into the cup.
The caddie ran toward the flag, with the drunk stumbling after him. When they reached the green, the caddie pointed to the ball nestling in the hole and shouted, "Look, sir!"
The drunk looked "We're in a hell of a fix," he mumbled. "Gimme m'niblick."—Philip C. Humphrey
Once, when General Ulysses S. Grant was visiting Scotland, his host gave him a demonstration of a game, new to Grant, called golf. Carefully, the host placed the ball on the tee and took a mighty swing, sending chunks of turf flying but not touching the ball.
Grant watched the exhibition quietly, but after the sixth unsuccessful attempt to hit the ball, he turned to his perspiring, embarrassed host and commented: "There seems to be a fair amount of exercise in the game, but I fail to see the purpose of the ball."
"Why don't you play golf with George Roberts anymore?" He: "Would you play golf with a man who cheats—who falsifies his score and picks up his ball when your back is turned?"
She: "Of course not."
He: "Well, neither will George Roberts."
Over in Africa some of the native tribes have the custom of beating the ground with clubs and uttering spine-chilling cries. Anthropologists call this a form of primitive self-expression. Over here in America, we call it golf.
Sweet old lady (to golfer vainly searching for his ball): Would it be cheating if I told you where it was?—The Lookout
Golf Clerk: Here's your dozen golf balls Shall I wrap them up?
Golfer: Never mind, I'll drive them home.—The Lookout
Two Scotchmen met and exchanged the small talk appropriate to the hour. As they were parting to go supperward Sandy said to Jock:
"Jock, mon, I'll go ye a roond on the links in the morrn'."
"The morrn'?" Jock repeated.
"Aye, mon, the morrn'," said Sandy. "I'll go ye a roond on the links in the morrn'."
"Aye, weel," said Jock, "I'll go ye. But I had intended to get marriet in the morrn'."
GOLFER (unsteadied by Christmas luncheon) to Opponent—
"Sir, I wish you clearly to understand that I resent your unwarrant—your interference with my game, sir! Tilt the green once more, sir, and I chuck the match."
Doctor William S. Rainsford is an inveterate golf player. When he was rector of St. George's Church, in New York City, he was badly beaten on the links by one of his vestrymen. To console the clergyman the vestryman ventured to say: "Never mind, Doctor, you'll get satisfaction some day when I pass away. Then you'll read the burial service over me."
"I don't see any satisfaction in that," answered the clergy-man, "for you'll still be in the hole."
SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER—"Willie, do you know what beomes of boys who use bad language when they're playing marbles?"
WILLIE—"Yes, miss. They grow up and play golf."
The game of golf, as every humorist knows, is conducive to profanity. It is also a terrible strain on veracity, every man being his own umpire.
Four men were playing golf on a course where the hazard on the ninth hole was a deep ravine.
They drove off. Three went into the ravine and one managed to get his ball over. The three who had dropped into the ravine walked up to have a look. Two of them decided not to try to play their balls out and gave up the hole. The third said he would go down and play out his ball. He disappeared into the deep crevasse. Presently his ball came bobbing out and after a time he climbed up.
"How many strokes?" asked one of his opponents.
"But I heard six."
"Three of them were echoes!"