I experienced another semi-infrequent lunch and round of golf with Dickey the Peap yesterday. At this rate, I am not sure that the FTI legal defense fund won't be replenished in approximately 10, 000 years or so. And I am not sure that the little miser still won't be around at that time insisting that the cost of death is simply more than he is willing to pay and that he will find a cheaper option. In the meantime, the George Jetson's of the future will be curiously studying the visitor from another time with the short arms.
In fairness, for the record, there was no static regarding whom had the responsibility to host yesterday's lunch. We alternate each time and yesterday was his turn to pay. I did find it curious, however, that upon seeing us, our host waiter, turned over to the bar and bellowed, " I need 16 ounces of beer in a 12 oz. glass!". Obviously, he has dealt with this character before. Good service by waitstaff at a restaurant includes knowledge by the staff of what the customer prefers and to try to accommodate the wishes of the guest. The successful business model of some restaurants do include promotional vehicles such as , "all-you-can-eat", "half-priced happy hour", "Taco Tuesday" and the like. I am unaware of any financially solvent operation employing the practice of negotiating menu prices with the customer before the order is taken. I know of only one individual that could systematically, individually, take down an operation by himself: Mr 16.oz of beer in a 12 oz glass.
Anyways, we had a good round of 9 holes of golf on a warm, later summer afternoon. At the end of hole 3, I was up by a score of 3 strokes and mentioned that I predicted I would probably win by 6 strokes at the end of our round. (For the infrequent reader: I am not a good golfer; I play approximately 5 times a year. My game is such that 90% of the time I flail about and move the ball 25 yards in the wrong direction. The other 10%, though, encourages me to keep playing and think I might have a chance to be actually good. It doesn't matter though; I do it just to have some fun.) The little miser immediately picked up on this and said, "I'll remember that, I'll remember that!". I wasn't trying to insult him, rather, just get inside of his head because he is actually as lousy as I am and each round is basically a coin toss as to whom will emerge the victor. We played even golf up to the last hole, where the wheels finally fell off for the Frugal One and he lost the hole by 3 strokes. Adding these 3 strokes to my prior 3 stroke advantage equaled the previously predicted 6 stroke advantage. Quietly and immediately, he handed me a well worn, aged, shiny from the repeated rubbing by oily fingers, uneven around the edges due to repeated handling while counted, payment for the loss of our standing bet when we play golf, quarter. "Ya know what really pisses me off?" he said. "Now I have to buy beer, too." "Look on the bright side." I told him. "They only sell 16 oz bottles in the bar."