Now that I'm retired, I'm living an even sweeter life. I was at my friend's posh country club the other day playing my third round of golf in a week. I played a leisurely eighteen holes during which my friend drove me around in a golf cart and an industrious young Peruvian lad named Samuel (pronounced "Sam-well") carried my heavy golf bag. Yes, I know that I could have strapped the bag to the back of the cart and saved the caddy some effort, but I figured I should make Samuel work a little for his Pesos. Along these lines, I also put some rocks and cement in my bag. It's the American Dream- if my Russian immigrant great-grandmother had seen the new generation of immigrants doing hard labor for me, she would have been so proud. Anyway, I sipped iced tea and swung the clubs every so often and had an OK round, score-wise.
When I got to the snack shack, or "19th hole," I looked around at the snacks available there- Gatorade X-factor (a disgusting mixture of Strawberry and Lemon-Lime), Payday bar (according to Delino archivist Eric, no store has ever sold a Payday bar in history), Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies (too mealy!!), etc.- and remarked, "Yikes- what a terrible selection of snacks." Keep in mind of course that these snacks would be paid for by my friend's rich parents. As you would expect, Samuel, though exhausted and panting from the day's work, understood how subtly frustrating this was: "Right again, Mister Dan. This is terrible, they don't even have Fritos."