My Course, My Rules

Did you hear about the guy in Chattanooga who won a Big Game lottery jackpot worth $60 million and went out and bought himself a golf course?

Damn right.

All my life I've wanted my own golf course. I dream of calling the starter and asking, "Any way you can squeeze me in for a round?" and having him answer, "All we got left is 6 a.m. until 7 p.m. Will that work?"

If I felt like playing 27, I could. If I felt like playing 54, 1 could. If I felt like playing from the 14th tee into the deep-fat fryer, stark naked on a unicycle, I could. Overnight, I guarantee you, my handicap would drop to a four. That's because I would turn par into a radio station, say, 103.5.

Not that there wouldn't be rules. Oh, there would be rules at Chop Acres.

?No collared shirts. They all look like an explosion at the Dutch Boy plant anyway. No kilties, either. And none of those ridiculous screw-you sunglasses.

?No men's locker room. That's what the trunk of your car's for, right? Or can't you get through your day without Vitalis, Bay Rum and Old Tom Morris's comb soaking in blue formaldehyde?

?No tee times for women. No tee times for kids. No tee times for men. If you can play in less than 3� hours, get out there. If not, we've saved the midnight-to-2 a.m. window for you.

?Come to think of it, all you get is 3� hours. After that, the carts run out of juice and the caddies hop the fence—with your Pings over their shoulders.

?No mulligans, breakfast balls, Clintons or hit-till-you're-happys. You don't have to prove to us you can smother-blade a driver twice in a row. We believe you. Besides, the first hole is a 23-yard, downhill par-3 from an elevated tee to a huge funnel green. We love seeing people make holes in one. We also love drinking free.