Golf Carts: the Transpo of the Future

I work on a studio lot, a giant one in Burbank. For those of you who don't know, the prefered mode of transportation on studio lots is the GOLF CART. Whoever thought of this is a genius, way ahead of his time. Whoever invented carts for golf was a lazy fucker who knew the sport would someday be dominated by old white businessmen/politicians/lobbyists (interchangeable these days) with Cheney-level health problems, valuable artistocrats whose door knobs cost more than my dad's car, and lazy people in general. And right now I'm too lazy to do research on the origins of golf carts, nor do I know enough about the sport of golf to pass judgment.

Side note: my golf expertise comes from the time I worked at a country club one summer in between college semesters, but I don't really remember much about this experience, other than learning that I am a communist when it comes to judging people who wealthy enough to join such an establishment. They must have found me out because they tried to kill me at some point. Yes, I'm serious. My bow tie and skirt-vest uniform they had me wear was so suffocating, I think I fainted a couple times while moving chairs for a dinner party. And even though I passed the drug test prior to the commencement of employment, it's safe to say I was dragging along a vodka ganja stench every time I attended to the Arnold Palmer needs of all those rich fuckers, collecting winks and subversive blow job requests ("tips" for all you nursing home volunteers) like I was running a part-time brothel downtown. Sure, Gramps! Pop them Viagra. I'll get right on that one. But while the men wanted you, the women hated you. One time I almost dumped a watercress sandwich on some Margaret Thatcher look-alike. As she gave me the pre-emptive evil eye, I stared right back, cutting her botox right open, the plastic melting her hypocrisy.

At that moment, I knew my place in this world: on a golf cart, speeding the wrong way down one-way "streets" on the Warner Brothers Studios lot like virtual character bound only by the laws of video game developers and unofficial golf cart-driving "rules of the road," flipping off assholes in trucks who have nothing to do with the TV show shooting in Stage 14 but just snuck on the lot to get in my way, the wind blowing my hair back as I wave to Richard Dreyfuss' disaster-ravaged Poseidon Adventure stunt double as the V.I.P. tour cart speeds by in the other direction, the guide saying "Look! It's Richard Dreyfuss!" as if his V.I.P.s haven't seen Mr. Holland's Opus.

When I'm riding around the lot in the golf cart, the smile expression takes control of my face muscles. All my worries for the day are temporarily subsided, and believe me, there is a lot of worry right about now. But golf carts can also be the answer to our worries. Take gas prices, for instance. I think about the 5 freeway heading home. What if it was all golf carts? That's it. I'm investing. I'm buying golf cart-manufacturers all over the NYSE, Dow Jones Industrial, and SMP 500. Your oil anxieties can just mix themselves with water and marinate in my golf cart idea for awhile.


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