Those of you who have been reading me for a while are no doubt well acquainted with my stormy and tumultuous relationship with the game of golf. And how much everyone else around me seems to love it. And how I, do not. And how I live for opportunities to mock this fine sport. And so, for what I am about to tell you I can only plead prolonged illness and pain meds, plus my obsessive fascination with my new iTouch which, to my possible downfall, has an app for the Amazon Kindle and a one touch “get books” setup.

So the other day I was browsing the pages of books available for the Kindle, and somehow my eye was caught by this book called The Downhill Lie by Carl Hiaason. Now normally I would’ve run as quickly as I could in the opposite direction once I figured out that this book was about golf. But I kept seeing things like, “Humor!”, and “Funny!”, and, “One of the two most hysterical books ever written about golf!”, and so I was totally sucked in. Because you know that I CANNOT resist The Humor.

And then I came to the chapter titled, “Toad Golf”, in which Hiaason describes the unusual circumstances that began to bring him back to the sport after a thirty-two year absence.

“The next time [I swung a club] occurred one night…when my best friend and fishing companion, Bob Branham, called to report a disturbing infestation. The culprit was Bufo marinus, a large and brazen type of toad that had invaded South Florida from Central America and proliferated rapidly, all but exterminating the more docile native species. The Bufo grows to two pounds and eats anything that fits in its maw, including small birds and mice. When threatened, it excretes from two glands behind its eyes a milky toxin extremely dangerous to mammals. Adventuresome human substance abusers have claimed that licking Bufo toads produces psychedelic visions, but the practice is often fatal for dogs and cats.

Which is why Bob had called. Every evening a brigade of Bufos had been appearing outside his back door and gobbling all the food he’d put out for Daisy, his young Labrador retriever. It’s probably unnecessary to point out that while Labradors possess a cheery and endearing temperament, they are not Mensa candidates in the kingdom of canines. In fact, Labradors will eagerly eat, lick or gnaw objects far more disgusting than a sweaty toad. For that reason, Bob expressed what I felt was a well-founded fear that his beloved pet was in peril during these nightly Bufo encounters.”

So Hiasson, as any good friend would do, goes over to Bob’s house to see what he can do to help.

“When I arrived at his house, the onslaught was in progress. A herd of medium-sized toads hungrily patrolled the perimeter of his patio, while one exceptionally rotund specimen had vaulted into Dixie’s dish and engulfed so much dog chow that it was unable to climb out. It looked like a mud quiche with eyeballs.”

And so, what to do?

“Bob and I were discussing our limited and unsavory options when I noticed a golf bag in a corner near the back door. We had a brief conversation about which of his neighbors was the most obnoxious, and then I reached for a 9-iron. Bob chose a 7.

Before the PETA rally begins, let me point out that the adult Bufo toad is one of God’s sturdiest creatures. Bob swears he once saw one get run over by a compact car and then hop away. I have my doubts, but in any case we purposely picked lofted clubs to effect a kinder, gentler relocation.”

And then you know what happened next.

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