Vincent's proficiency at spotting, leaning out and picking up errant gum wrappers, cellophane cigar sleeves and twigs of all sizes from the fairway while driving a golf cart at full throttle increased exponentially that Spring. It was on one such pass that Vincent imagined himself a Moldavian Cossack, adorned in the colorful robe, golden sash, poodle hair hat, jewel-encrusted dagger and gold handled sword. Vincent was demonstrating his golf cartsmanship on the 18th fairway to two foursomes of lithe, nubile and affluent women members. The women looked on with glee, wonder and longing as Vincent picked up fairway litter, his slender V-Shaped torso extended out parallel to the fairway moving rapidly beneath him. Adroitly, his one foot securely locked in the wheel and steered, while his other foot held the accelerator down. Men looked on with envy. Even the Club Pro was impressed. Vincent just smiled and drove off to the next fairway and another appreciative audience.
What Are Those Cossacks Doing On Our 18th Fairway?
