Burk and her adjutants occupied Ike's Cabin—which the other side sarcastically renamed Dyke's Cabin—and Hootie and the members holed up in the men's grill, firing black-eyed peas at anybody who wasn't wearing one of their THE ONLY IRON A WOMAN SHOULD HOLD IS A STEAM IRON! T-shirts.
In the middle of all this, the players were trying to win the tournament, which wasn't easy with Johnnie Cochran running all over the place yelling, "How come the balls are white? Where are the balls of color?" and Pat Buchanan holding a prayer vigil at Amen Corner, and PETA down at Rae's Creek trying to save the fish swimming in the green-dyed ponds.
I still can't figure out why Hans Blix and his U.N. inspectors were there.
People kept having to explain to Jimmy Carter that there were no hostages to free. They finally had to get an ambulance for CBS anchor Jim Nantz. Hootie had decided to televise this Masters without any ads, to take the heat off his sponsors; the E.R. guy said no TV announcer could handle the stress of going that long without re-moussing.
But the most frustrated person at Augusta was Tiger Woods, who was trying to become the first man in history to win three straight Masters. He led by 35 shots at one point, despite having to constantly step over and around Dusty Baker's kid, who kept running along the fairways trying to pick up Tiger's ball and bring it back to him.
Hootie finally canceled the whole damn tournament Sunday afternoon, mostly on account of Richard Gere's Tibetan monks meditating in the bunkers, the pile of burning bras on the 18th green (which somebody tried to put out with Andy Rooney) and the desecration of the membership log by Burk, who wrote herself and 50 of her friends in as members.
Tiger had only a four-footer left on 18 when Hootie shut it down. Tiger didn't take the news well. It was the first time anyone had seen a guy come for the green jacket and get taken away in a straitjacket instead.
Still, I think Hillary will make a terrific membership chair-woman, don't you?