Power of Caring
  presented by CIGNA

Take an e-mail, Poindexter. Address it to billgates@richerthangod.networth.

Dear Bill,

So you can't get into Augusta National Golf Club. You've been hanging around the place, playing golf with fellow billionaire Warren Buffett, bunking at the cabins. You've let on that you'd love to be a member. You've even given a new building at your company headquarters the code name Augusta.

Yet you've gone and double-bogeyed this thing. The notification letters will be going out to new members in a few weeks, but you're not gonna get one. Crazy world, ain't it? The initiation fee is only about $40,000. Hell, you've got that in your couch cushions. Yet you're still waiting down at the Magnolia Lane guard shack. You're worth $58 billion. You could buy the club. You could buy Georgia. Yet you can't buy a membership. Even you gotta admit it, Bill, this is rich.

Problem is, you don't understand the place.

First off, your name. It's gotta go. This is Augusta, son. The chairman of the club is named Hootie. Everybody else is either Cletis or Stump. They're all worth half of downtown Etlanna, but it don't make no never mind. You need to tack on something friendly, something homespun. How 'bout Gitalong? Gitalong Gates. Smile a lot, and we'll call you Pearly. Hell, at least give 'em Billy Jim.

Come to think of it, maybe you oughtta do something about the name of your company, too. This is an all-male club. Most of the members voted against Lincoln. In the locker room they dispense Viagra right next to the witch hazel. They're not gonna be real excited about hearing the words micro and soft over
and over.

Now, for that mug. You look like the equipment manager for the junior high chess team. You're 42 years old trying to get into a club where the average age is coma. Add 30 pounds. Lose some hair. Grow some dandruff. Put your glasses on a chain around your neck and then constantly search the top of your head for them. Stick one of those little suction cups on the end of your putter so you don't have to bend over to get the ball out of the hole.

Another thing. Don't go down there ordering lobster and arugula. Think blue plate, not silver. Fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens. Everything's Chez Aunt Bee. Learn to stick a supper of bobbycue, fried oakree and a mess of cobbler down your neck, shove back from the table and say, "Well, that'll push a turd."

That's the other thing. You gotta speak fluent Augusta. It's goff, not golf, and guff, not gulf, as in the sentence, Ahm fixin' on playin' me some goff with that ol' boy from Guff Earl. When thirsty at the turn, say, Lordy, ah show could use a Sebmup. And if you play awful, say, Ah hit it everwhichaways, and then add humbly, Ah prolly orta quit ratcheer.

Now, about your game. You've only played about five years. Your handicap is 26. Get yourself some lessons. Join Pine Valley and Cypress Point and the R&A. Drop sentences like, "Sandy and I had a helluva good match at Machrihanish." Develop a reverence for the loose-impediment rule and make sure a ratty copy of Down the Fairway falls out of your ball pocket in front of the members.

The most important thing is, you gotta want it less. Remember going on dates in high school? O.K., not a good question for you, but for a lot of us, the more anxious you seemed in high school, the less chance you had. Same deal at Augusta. Some of the members didn't like the way your candidacy became so public. You're not even supposed to know you're up for membership. They all think of it as the world's plushest tree house. They like to put an arm on you, drag you up and rub bloody thumbs together. Act surprised.

You do have a few things going for you. You're in a nasty rassle with the U.S. gubmint. The boys'll like that. You play fast. Bad, but fast. That's good, too. I figure you'll be in by the time you're 50. They encourage all members to help out with the Masters. So first thing you do is sign up for the concessions committee. No reason in particular, except I just love the idea of you sticking little $1 price tags on pimento cheese sandwiches.

All I ask is that, when you do get in, have me down. After this column, you're my only shot.

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Past Editions of Life of Reilly

Issue date: October 5, 1998