There I was at rock bottom, 104 degrees in my Dallas red light motel. Awakened by the wail of sirens, hookers, and the night, I look around at my sullen landscape. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels, dozens of discarded ciggy butts overflowing from an undersized ashtray, a cracked picture frame on the wall with a faded picture of Roger Staubach.

I arise from the bed, still damp from the incredible humidity and lack of AC, and head to the bathroom. With bloodshot eyes and the breath of 1,000 camels I stare at the mirror, surveying the damage from the previous evenings bout with addiction. After many bodily noises I head for the shower...then it happened.

As I step into the shower I realize that this is no ordinary shower. No, this is a Rod Serlingish Shower indeed. Suddenly surrounded by a bright purple glow the shower begins shaking and then just as quickly darts off through the walls and into the clouds. I am flying through the heavens, naked in my own personal Space Shower machine. I'm loving it though as the water is real hot and this never worked too well before. There's nothing quite like getting a full lather at 50,000 feet to cure a hangover.

Then out of nowhere, my flying shower machine comes to a crashing halt. After picking myself up from the impact I get up and survey my surroundings. Seems like a regular shower again, but not mine. I look out the shower door. Not my bathroom. Way too nice. This is weird.

Then from the other end of this huge, marble covered luxury bathroom I hear this:

"Euda darling, can you please bring some more bubble bath to me. I'll make it worth your while..."

Wow now this is getting interesting. I grab the bubble bath, but first steal a swig of the Scope sitting on the counter, and head to the sound of vixen...

There she is, the most incredible looking little babushka these eyes had ever seen, naked in the bath. I of course join her. "Honey, this rough guy look you've got going is really turning me on!", says the little honey vixen. "You know euda, I am really looking forward to that golfing vacation with the Sappersteins." "Are you ready to teach me how to play?" coos the little vixen..."yes but first I'm going to teach you something else", grunts Euda (Mad lovemaking scene goes down) Ohhh, euda, you have never been this good before! oooooo oooo oooo, yes yes yes, ooo ahhhh ooo", cries the supervixen.

I get out of the bath and grab a robe, which surprisingly has the word "euda" stitched on and head downstairs to this strange mansion with pictures of me playing golf everywhere.

That was how it all began. The lies, the life, the fun, and the golf. Should I go on? Or keep my day job?

If a peek into the sordid life of my neglected putters interests you then you need serious counseling....but, please read on anyway!! :-)

We must be in hell. The silence is deafening, only to be broken like clockwork twice a day by some mysterious metallic gear sound. This is a dark, damp, hard place. You know, the kind of place where you need to watch your back. There is little hope here. Sure we've heard stories of one of us getting out, breaking free, joining the outside world once again. But these are just stories.

Our home is here in this cockroach infested haven known as eudaman's garage.

We are eudaman's discarded putters. Our population is at 12 after my long time pal, Ray Cook, was run over last week. His bloodied shaft left untended on the floor for days.

My name is Tad Moore and I used to be the number one putter. I used to travel. I stayed in the finest hotels. Life was good. I am the same putter that drained a treacherous, winding 12-foot birdie at Pebble Beach #9. I am the putter that brought home the cabbage versus JK time and time again.

But because I missed a few four footers, all my past glories were forgotten. I should have ran when after the round we stopped at Roger Dunn's golf shop. If only I had more than just one heel and toe. I should have seen it coming. I felt the life drain from my shaft when I saw eudaman carrying out a brand new Scotty Cameron Coronado 2 oilcan putter. All that practice, all those memories.

Thought I'd be in the bag forever. I shoulda listened to Hogan, the 7 iron, he told me long ago to watch my flange.

So now we sit here, like dogs in an animal shelter, begging for another chance.

The End

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