Golf Cart Quotes

Think like a middle-aged man with OCD, a dead wife, and a teenage daughter. Think like a woman with three teenage sons who once ran a golf cart into the side of their granddad's house." "Cameron and Sean shouldn't have let me drive," Adam said in his own defense. "I was seven." "You shouldn't have ASKED to drive. You were seven.

But the things that make other people nervous have never scared me. I'm not afraid of men in golf carts or horror movies or roller coasters. I didn't know precisely what I was afraid of, but it wasn't this.

the things that make other people nervous have never scared me. I’m not afraid of men in golf carts or horror movies or roller coasters. I didn’t know precisely what I was afraid of, but it wasn’t this.

Having second thoughts, Taft?" "Sawyer doesn't have second thoughts!" Sadie-Grace insisted from the golf cart behind us, loyal to the bone. "Sometimes, she doesn't even have first thoughts!" Thank you, Sadie-Grace.

Hawaii once had a rat problem. Then, somebody hit upon a brilliant solution. import mongooses from India. Mongooses would kill the rats. It worked. Mongooses did kill the rats. Mongooses also killed chickens, young pigs, birds, cats, dogs, and small children. There have been reports of mongooses attacking motorbikes, power lawn mowers, golf carts, and James Michener. in Hawaii now, there are as many mongooses as there once were rats. Hawaii had traded its rat problem for a mongoose problem. Hawaii was determined nothing like that would ever happen again. How could Leigh-Cheri draw for Gulietta the appropriate analogy between Hawaii's rodents and society at large? Society had a crime problem. It hired cops to attack crime. Now society has a cop problem.

Wait a minute,” said Jason. “Can any of us even drive?” “I drove,” said Theo. “Once.” “That was a golf cart,” said Alia. “So? It had four wheels and went vroom.” “You crashed it into a tree.” “I’ll have you know that tree had been drinking.

They had been attacked by guys in golf carts with blow guns, jumped off a cliff, been locked in a burning school, and had their heads stapled, but putting coins in a slot machine was considered too dangerous for kids. Go figure.

I have to admit," I said when he finished a lengthy discussion on the types of drivers, "I've been golfing and it's about the most boring thing I've ever done. Old men drive around in golf carts pretending they're sporty and getting grouchy if there's any noise. It's like the nursing-home Olympics." Nick's mouth dropped open. "It takes great athletic ability to know how to aim and drive the ball that far." "I get more exercise shopping at the mall," I joked. "I don't come home and tell everyone I won at shopping." Although those red shoes I got on sale the other day felt like a win.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been driven very slowly through a crowd of screaming fans, in full view of the world’s media, on a gold-painted golf cart with a pair of enormous illuminated glasses and a bow tie on the front, but if you haven’t, I can tell you that it’s a pretty excruciating experience.

7 ALL ELECTRIC J. B. STRAUBEL HAS A TWO-INCH-LONG SCAR that cuts across the middle of his left cheek. He earned it in high school, during a chemistry class experiment. Straubel whipped up the wrong concoction of chemicals, and the beaker he was holding exploded, throwing off shards of glass, one of which sliced through his face. The wound lingers as a tinkerer’s badge of honor. It arrived near the end of a childhood full of experimentation with chemicals and machines. Born in Wisconsin, Straubel constructed a large chemistry lab in the basement of his family’s home that included fume hoods and chemicals ordered, borrowed, or pilfered. At thirteen, Straubel found an old golf cart at the dump. He brought it back home and restored it to working

See that?" said Lemon. "The car tracks turn off there." "How do you know it's not the parks people on a golf cart thingie?" "You don't golf, do you, Kate?" "No, I'm too young to die of boredom.

But the things that make other people nervous have never scared me. I’m not afraid of men in golf carts or horror movies or roller coasters. I didn’t know precisely what I was afraid of, but it wasn’t this.

I distracted Herbert by pretending to trip and break a bone. Ethan darted around to the red golf cart with a cocky smile on his face. He put the key in ignition, and the vehicle roared to life. “Hey,” Herbert shouted, snapping his attention to Ethan. I sprang up and ran up to Ethan. He pulled me in the cart and stomped on the gas pedal. We shot through the automatic doors with Herbert on our tail. “Go faster!” I cheered. My brother smacked the steering wheel. “I can’t; it’s a golf cart.

I love Fourth of July. It's my favorite, isn't it, Mim? This was going to be the year I won the golf cart parade and the pie-eating contest up at the lake. William Faulkner, too" "William Faulkner was going to win a pie-eating contest?" I asked. Still channeling Lillian, John David gave me a look. "Don't be ridiculous, Sawyer. There is no canine pie-eating contest. William Faulkner is going to win the costume contest, which is part of the parade." "I mean, sure," I said, nodding. "Who doesn't celebrate American independence with some kind of dog costume contest?" "And parade." John David could not have emphasized those words more.

For about five minutes, as I tried to get the Vespa to start, I fell in love with her. The oversized raincoat made her look about eight, as though she should have had matching Wellies with ladybugs on them, and inside the red hood were huge brown eyes and rain-spiked lashes and a face like a kitten’s. I wanted to dry her gently with a big fluffy towel, in front of a roaring fire. But then she said, “Here, let me—you have to know how to twist the thingy,” and I raised an eyebrow and said, “The thingy? Honestly, girls.” I immediately regretted it—I have never been talented at banter, and you never know, she could have been some earnest droning feminist extremist who would lecture me in the rain about Amelia Earhart. But Cassie gave me a deliberate, sideways look, and then clasped her hands with a wet spat and said in a breathy Marilyn voice, “Ohhh, I’ve always dreamed of a knight in shining armor coming along and rescuing little me! Only in my dreams he was good-looking.” What I saw transformed with a click like a shaken kaleidoscope. I stopped falling in love with her and started to like her immensely. I looked at her hoodie jacket and said, “Oh my God, they’re about to kill Kenny.” Then I loaded the Golf Cart into the back of my Land Rover and drove her home.

Pilchard begins his long run in from short stump. He bowls and … oh, he’s out! Yes, he’s got him. Longwilley is caught leg-before in middle slops by Grattan. Well, now what do you make of that, Neville?’ ‘That’s definitely one for the books, Bruce. I don’t think I’ve seen offside medium slow fast pace bowling to match it since Baden-Powell took Rangachangabanga for a maiden ovary at Bangalore in 1948.’ I had stumbled into the surreal and rewarding world of cricket on the radio. After years of patient study (and with cricket there can be no other kind) I have decided that there is nothing wrong with the game that the introduction of golf carts wouldn’t fix in a hurry. It is not true that the English invented cricket as a way of making all other human endeavours look interesting and lively; that was merely an unintended side effect. I don’t wish to denigrate a sport that is enjoyed by millions, some of them awake and facing the right way, but it is an odd game. It is the only sport that incorporates meal breaks. It is the only sport that shares its name with an insect. It is the only sport in which spectators burn as many calories as players (more if they are moderately restless). It is the only competitive activity of any type, other than perhaps baking, in which you can dress in white from head to toe and be as clean at the end of the day as you were at the beginning.

In South Texas I saw three interesting things. The first was a tiny girl, maybe ten years old, driving in a 1965 Cadillac. She wasn't going very fast, because I passed her, but still she was cruising right along, with her head tilted back and her mouth open and her little hands gripping the wheel. Then I saw an old man walking up the median strip pulling a wooden cross behind him. It was mounted on something like a golf cart with two spoked wheels. I slowed down to read the hand-lettered sign on his chest. JACKSONVILLE FLA OR BUST I had never been to Jacksonville but I knew it was the home of the Gator Bowl and I had heard it was a boom town, taking in an entire county or some such thing. It seemed an odd destination for a religious pilgrim. Penance maybe for some terrible sin, or some bargain he had worked out with God, or maybe just a crazed hiker. I waved and called out to him, wishing him luck, but he was intent on his marching and had no time for idle greetings. His step was brisk and I was convinced he wouldn't bust. The third interesting thing was a convoy of stake-bed trucks all piled high with loose watermelons and cantaloupes. I was amazed. I couldn't believe that the bottom ones weren't crushed under all that weight, exploding and spraying hazardous melon juice onto the highway. One of nature's tricks with curved surfaces. Topology! I had never made it that far in mathematics and engineering studies, and I knew now that I never would, just as I knew that I would never be a navy pilot or a Treasury agent. I made a B in Statics but I was failing in Dynamics when I withdrew from the field. The course I liked best was one called Strength of Materials. Everybody else hated it because of all the tables we had to memorize but I loved it, the sheared beam. I had once tried to explain to Dupree how things fell apart from being pulled and compressed and twisted and bent and sheared but he wouldn't listen. Whenever that kind of thing came up, he would always say - boast, the way those people do - that he had no head for figures and couldn't do things with his hands, slyly suggesting the presence of finer qualities.

The big color television set was on, glowing eerily over the bottles of rye and bourbon, and that was how I happened to witness the event. I saw the two padded figures take their first steps in that airless world, bouncing like toys over the landscape, driving a golf cart through the dust, planting a flag in the eye of what had once been the goddess of love and lunacy. Radiant Diana, I thought, image of what is dark within us. Then the president spoke. In a solemn, deadpan voice he declared this to be the greatest event since the creation of man. The old-timers at the bar laughed when they heard this, and I believe I managed to crack a smile or two myself. But for all the absurdity of that remark, there was one thing no one could challenge: since the day he was expelled from Paradise, Adam had never been this far from home.

Hey—we have a problem. You have some unexpected guests down at the gate. You should go check it out.” Guests? Who would come here to see me? I hop in the golf cart and drive down to the main gate. Just in time to hear Franny Barrister, the Countess of Ellington, tearing into a poor, clueless Matched security guard. “Don’t you tell me we can’t come in, you horse’s arse. Where’s Henry—what have you done with him?” Simon, my brother’s best friend, sees me approach, his sparkling blue eyes shining. “There he is.” I nod to security and open the gate. “Simon, Franny, what are you doing here?” “Nicholas said you didn’t sound right the last time he spoke to you. He asked us to peek in on you,” Simon explains. Franny’s shrewd gaze rakes me over. “He doesn’t look drunk. And he obviously hasn’t hung himself from the rafters—that’s better than I was expecting.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Simon peers around the grounds, at the smattering of crew members and staging tents. “What the hell is going on, Henry?” I clear my throat. “So . . . the thing is . . . I’m sort of . . . filming a reality dating television show here at the castle and we started with twenty women and now we’re down to four, and when it’s over one of them will get the diamond tiara and become my betrothed. At least in theory.” It sounded so much better in my head. “Don’t tell Nicholas.” Simon scrubs his hand down his face. “Now I’m going to have to avoid his calls—I’m terrible with secrets.” And Franny lets loose a peal of tinkling laughter. “This is fabulous! You never disappoint, you naughty boy.” She pats my arm. “And don’t worry, when the Queen boots you out of the palace, Simon and I will adopt you. Won’t we, darling?” Simon nods. “Yes, like a rescue dog.” “Good to know.” Then I gesture back to their car. “Well . . . it was nice of you to stop by.” Simon shakes his head. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily, mate.” “Yes, we’re definitely staying.” Franny claps her hands. “I have to see this!” Fantastic.

I walked slowly back home, breathing deeply and taking in all the sights and sounds of a private country club golf course: the beeping of a distant golf cart driving in reverse, the barking of the bird dogs Dr. Burris took hunting with him every fall and winter, millions of tiny birds in triumphant song. It was the closest thing to the country that I’d known until now. And my thoughts turned to Marlboro Man. I was thinking of him when I walked back into the house, imagining his gorgeous voice in my ear when I heard the phone ringing in my room. I ran up the stairs, skipping three steps at a time, and answered the phone, breathless. “Hello?” I gasped. “Hey there,” Marlboro Man said. “What are you doing?” “Oh, I just went for a run on the golf course,” I answered. As if I did it every day. “Well, I just want you to know I’m coming to get you at five,” he said. “I’m having Ree withdrawals.” “You mean since midnight, when we last saw each other?” I joked. Actually, I knew exactly what he meant. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s way, way too long, and I’m not gonna put up with it anymore.” I loved it when he took charge. “Okay, then--fine,” I said, surrendering. “I don’t want to argue. I’ll see you at five.

driving through the park I notice men and women playing golf driving in their powered carts over billiard table lawns, they are my age but their bodies are fat their hair grey their faces waffle batter, and I remember being startled by my own face scarred, and mean as red ants looking at me from a department store mirror and the eyes mad mad mad I drive on and start singing making up the sound a war chant and there is the sun and the sun says, good, I know you, and the steering wheel is humorous and the dashboard laughs, see, the whole sky knows I have not lied to anything even death will have exits like a dark theatre. I stop at a stop sign and as fire burns the trees and the people and the city I know that there will be a place to go and a way to go and nothing need ever be lost.

For most of our history, walking wasn’t a choice. It was a given. Walking was our primary means of locomotion. But, today, you have to choose to walk. We ride to work. Office buildings and apartments have elevators. Department stores offer escalators. Airports use moving sidewalks. An afternoon of golf is spent riding in a cart. Even a ramble around your neighborhood can be done on a Segway. Why not just put one foot in front of the other? You don’t have to live in the country. It’s great to take a walk in the woods, but I love to roam city streets, too, especially in places like New York, London, or Rome, where you can’t go half a block without making some new discovery. A long stroll slows you down, puts things in perspective, brings you back to the present moment. In Wanderlust: A History of Walking (Viking, 2000), author Rebecca Solnit writes that, “Walking, ideally, is a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned, as though they were three characters finally in conversation together, three notes suddenly making a chord.” Yet in our hectic, goal-oriented culture, taking a leisurely walk isn’t always easy. You have to plan for it. And perhaps you should. Walking is good exercise, but it is also a recreation, an aesthetic experience, an exploration, an investigation, a ritual, a meditation. It fosters health and joie de vivre. Cardiologist Paul Dudley White once said, “A vigorous five-mile walk will do more good for an unhappy but otherwise healthy adult than all the medicine and psychology in the world.” A good walk is anything but pedestrian. It lengthens your life. It clears, refreshes, provokes, and repairs the mind. So lace up those shoes and get outside. The most ancient exercise is still the best.

He was a professional athlete and coach, a Ferrari who lived his life in the fast lane. She was a girl-next-door kind of girl, closer to a golf cart than a sports car.

their mother.” All over England, other citadels of the British class system were falling to the Poles. One 303 Squadron pilot, shot down during the Battle of Britain, parachuted onto an exclusive golf course, landing near the eighth tee. The men playing the hole insisted on carting the dazed flier off to the clubhouse for drinks. Another parachuting pilot drifted into a copse near a private tennis club in the London suburbs. Three club members observed his descent as they awaited the arrival of a fourth for their weekly doubles match. They helped extricate the Pole from the trees and, giving up on their expected fourth, asked if he played. When the young pilot said he did, he was dressed in borrowed white flannels and was soon on the court, borrowed racket in hand.

I hit a drive, golfing one time, before they had the new titanium drivers. It went about 335 in the air and rolled to about 400 yards. I hit a pitch shot at the base of a 10 foot mound with a 15 foot spread on the green in either direction. It went about 30 feet in the air and land about 10 feet ahead of me. It was roughly 3-4 inches from the hole. The golf pro, given the angle and the lack of time i took getting set, and just the difficulty of the shot that close, said it was the best golf shot he'd ever seen. He was driving by in his golf cart when i made the shot. He had stopped to watch me shoot it.

I hit a drive golfing one time before the had the new titanium drivers. It went about 335 in the air and rolled to about 400 yards. I hit a pitch shot at the base of a 10 foot mound with a 15 foot spread on the green in either direction. It went about 30 feet in the air and land about 10 foot ahead of me. It was roughly 3-4 inches from the hole. The golf pro, given the angle and the lack of time i took getting set, and just the difficulty of the shot that close, said it was the best golf shot he'd ever seen. He was driving by in his golf cart when i made the shot. He stopped to watch me shoot it.

Could the electric car follow the same path? Count Elon Musk among the believers. ‘‘At the beginning of last year [2015], we had fifty thousand cars in total on the roads worldwide, and then last year we produced another fifty thousand cars,” he said in January 2016. “So the total fleet of Tesla vehicles doubled last year. It will approximately double again this year.” We shouldn’t take Musk’s word for it, of course—Tesla’s 2016 production fell about twenty-five thousand cars short of doubling the previous year’s tally—but consider that many of the effects that spur demand for electric vehicles are only just starting to take hold. The decline of battery prices, which will make electric cars more affordable, is probably the biggest factor influencing demand, but there are others. For a start, many hundreds of millions of people still don’t know a thing about electric vehicles that aren’t golf carts or hybrids like the Toyota Prius.

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She’s staring at me, which, yeah. Of course she is, because I’m babbling like a fucking fourteen-year-old girl swooning over fucking Prince Manning. But this is Fireball, and you never know what she might be thinking. So I cut a glance at her to see if it’s an I’m considering it stare or if it’s an I’m letting a loony bin drive me around on a golf cart stare, and—“Fuck!

Many items with batteries were going on fire in the hurricane Ian aftermath: Electric cars, golf carts, electronic products and so on.

camouflage-painted contraption that looked like a golf cart on steroids.

I thought I was big, but nothing compares to this guy. I’m surprised this little golf cart can haul the two of us around. As it is, the motor is whining dramatically. It might just give up. This is not the little engine that could.

one of Mr. Boyden’s devices is riding around the Deerfield campus in a horse-drawn buggy. There have been dark hints that other headmasters, to compete, have had to dream up devices or eccentricities or “trademarks” of their own. Seymour St. John at Choate, for instance, has been seen with a pet otter flopping at his heels, and the Reverend Matthew Warren, headmaster of St. Paul’s, was given a red-and-white golf cart by an appreciative alumnus in which to tool around the campus.

No, this was Bernhard Langer, a great many years ago. His golf ball was between a cart path and some bushes. It was not touching the cart path and was quite close to the bushes. In fact it was so close to the bushes that he could not take a proper stance if he played the shot his natural hand, right-handed. So, he decided to play the shot left-handed, which is his right. Or is it left? Anyway, to play the shot left-handed he would have to stand on the cart path. He argued, successfully, that as he would have to stand on the cart path he was entitled to relief. And, he got it. Once relief was taken, he now had room to hit the ball right-handed. Which he did. Remember, the rules will screw you if you let them, so know them well and you can get some shots back.  

I caddied—more accurately, I drove the golf cart—for Father O’Leary and his friends throughout most of the summer of that year. I was a good caddie because I saw nothing when they passed the bottle of whiskey and turned a deaf ear to yet another colorful reinvention of the words “motherless son of a bitch from hell” when the golf ball betrayed them.

Anyone who discounts you is a dumbass," I muttered as the golf cart jerked forward. "And are you a dumbass?" the Pigeon inquired as she peeked under the tarp. "Absolutely not...I'm a smartass.

on pitch-black asphalt and through manicured grounds where the only other vehicles were Range Rovers, Mercedeses, and BMW SUVs—or golf carts. The Grand Tetons walled off the western horizon like tiger teeth. To the east was the Gros Ventre Range, to the south the Hoback Mountains, and to the north Grand Teton

A killer’s instinct was as easily packed away in a U-Haul as a fitness machine or a golf cart was. He’d

The crowd began to murmur in the indistinguishable syllables of backstage banter. As the ball ascended, so did the volume of the murmurs. Words could be made out. Then phrases. “Lovely golf stroke.” “Super golf shot.” “Beautiful golf shot.” “Truly fine golf stroke.” They always said golf stroke, like someone might mistake it for a swim stroke, or—as Myron was currently contemplating in this blazing heat—a sunstroke. “Mr. Bolitar?” Myron took the periscope away from his eyes. He was tempted to yell “Up periscope,” but feared some at stately, snooty Merion Golf Club would view the act as immature. Especially during the U.S. Open. He looked down at a ruddy-faced man of about seventy. “Your pants,” Myron said. “Pardon me?” “You’re afraid of getting hit by a golf cart, right?” They were orange and yellow in a hue slightly more luminous than a bursting supernova. To be fair, the man’s clothing hardly stood out. Most in the crowd seemed to have woken up wondering what apparel they possessed that would clash with, say, the free world. Orange and green tints found exclusively in several of your tackiest neon signs adorned many. Yellow and some strange shades of purple were also quite big—usually together—like a color scheme rejected by a Midwest high school cheerleading squad. It was as if being surrounded by all this God-given natural beauty made one want to do all in his power to offset it. Or maybe there was something else at work here. Maybe the ugly clothes had a more functional origin. Maybe in the old days, when animals roamed free, golfers dressed this way to ward off dangerous wildlife. Good

water and gathering speed. It slid right toward the windows, moving impossibly fast.  CRASH! The cart slammed sideways into the window, shattering it—and a torrent of water followed. It poured into the cafeteria through the smashed window. The golf cart came through the window, then slid across the room. A man tried to stop it, fell down in three feet of water, and didn’t come back up again. Everywhere, people were falling down into the rising water, unable to stand up again.

retrieve their winter coats from the cloakroom, he wrenched open the door and ran down the short flight of steps to the courtyard. “We’ll take the cart to speed us up.” He slid behind the wheel of the small golf cart they used to transport supplies around the island. Bran leaped into the back, barking in excitement. A moment later, Peters clambered into the passenger seat, clutching both their coats. Darko turned the key in the ignition and eased the vehicle into motion. “Is the corpse male or female? Young or old?” “Male. Medium height. Heavy build. Forty-plus.” Darko’s

Someone’s coming.” Terry McCaleb looked at his wife and then followed her eyes down to the winding road below. He could see the golf cart making its way up the steep and winding road to the

Abby jumped into the Prius. Lily bundled the defibrillator into her friend’s lap, then jumped in the Prius’s back door behind her. “Go! Go! Go!” And with all the roaring fury of a golf cart escaping the back nine, they sped into the traffic

This morning, I found the CD on the front seat of my golf cart with a note that said, Hopefully, now I won’t have to keep playing this song for you, with a smiley face.  He BOUGHT me the CD!

When we finally get a full accounting, we will learn how much he benefited from forcing taxpayers to spend for his hotel rooms, golf cart rentals, meals, and other expenses at his properties. The bill, excluding necessary security costs, will run into many millions of dollars.

Golf is boring, he thinks. It discourages him. The boy would rather eat cabbage ice cream. “We’ll throw in your brother’s clubs,” I told him, “but you don’t have to golf. You can drive the cart and laugh at my shots.” He seemed okay with that. After all, a trip with dad spells restaurants and hotels and waterslides to a boy his age. He can tolerate a game of golf for such rewards. Upon arriving, we were introduced to the other members of our foursome, Jim and Neil, two of the kindest guys I’ve ever met. When they discovered Jeffrey’s intentions, they were disappointed. “Golf with us,” pleaded Jim, bowing on one knee and extending a hand, “we need you.” “I’ll buy you a pop and hamburger for lunch,” promised Neil. Perhaps it was the hamburger that beckoned louder than the golf course, but soon Jeffrey found himself on the first tee, addressing the ball and surprising us all with a straight shot about 100 yards down the fairway. “Tiger!” said Jim. “You swing just like Tiger Woods!” Jeffrey was grinning. The tournament was a best ball format. From the first tee, my ball sailed 200 yards but found a bunker. Jim and Neil were less fortunate. So guess whose ball we used? You’re right. It was “Tiger’s.

The Four Horsemen weren’t pain and pestilence manifested as giants who rode skeletal stallions from the sky, but instead were roadies for Metallica, Slayer, Megadeath, and Anthrax from the original Big Four of Thrash Tour. They rode into town on four old, beat-to-shit golf carts covered in stickers for metal bands, most of which were unreadable.

Finally, the golf cart stopped. A hand grabbed my elbow and yanked me out. I said nothing as I was escorted to a secret location where Soda was probably going to meet with me. Either that, or I was about to die. At least I was already wearing the tux, right?

Horses were less the thundering creatures Of pounding hoof beats and unparalleled speed found in movies and more like golf carts that ran on a tank of grass and occasionally bit you.

golf cart

his Camp David golf cart, dubbed “Golf Cart One

Hurricane Floyd, packing a wind estimated at 14 miles per hour, lashes South Florida, wreaking more than $67.50 worth of havoc. Governor “Bob” Martinez, after touring the devastated area via golf cart, pledges that he will request federal disaster relief, then campaign against it.

In Hartford, Connecticut, on the Working on a Dream tour, Max Weinberg’s son was sitting in on drums. There’s a lot of buzz about this, and Bruce thinks it would make a perfect Rolling Stone story, which it will. Clarence Clemons, Bruce’s iconic sax player, is taken from his dressing room to the stage on a golf cart.

afternoon, Mr. James zipped around the school in his golf cart and sped toward the back of the building. In the fourteen years that he’d been working at Maplewood, it had become a tradition for him to see off the athletic teams when they had away games. And even though he was supposed to be monitoring the front exits, there was no way he was going to tempt fate by skipping the send-off. This game was too important.

They had been attacked by guys in golf carts with blow guns, jumped off a cliff, been locked in a burning school, and had their heads stapled, but putting coins in a slot machine was considered too dangerous for kids.

Trump stepped off a golf cart in a dark-blue blazer, his make america great again hat splitting the masses like the Red Sea. He’d hardly taken a step before Hillary was a distant afterthought.

It’s as if both Midas and also the Queen of Narnia were here,” I said, “and the Queen of Narnia flew above a particularly fierce zoo and turned everything there to stone and then transported everything here.” “What?” said Al. “Nothing,” I said. “No,” he said, “what did you just say?” He shot me a steely, blue-eyed stare, which I found quite debilitating. “It was just a jumble of words,” I said. “I was trying to make a funny comment but it all became confused in my mouth.” “Oh,” said Al. “I’ll show you outside. Would you like to walk or take the golf cart?” “I think walk,” I said.

Whether the individuals are members of the Eisenhower Generation or the Baby Boomers, The Villages produces a culture of individual and collective youthfulness, but one paradoxically without youth. Youthfulness in these terms is not only produced through communal activities but also through the repair, development, and enhancement of the individual body itself. The programming of the strip hospital complex supports what might be termed as 'cyborgian' ambitions of the residents with respect to a broad range of treatments and products, from the biochemical and the biomechanical, to the bio-cosmetic and the psychochemical. Blechman's documentation of the 'Don Juan' of the villages, Mr. Midnight, resonates with this notion of posthuman subjecthood: 'I have to pick up my Viagra,' he says, and soon returns with a brown package. 'It's not that I need it, mind you. It's an enhancement, like whipped cream and nuts on a sundae. If it's a special night, I might take 100 milligrams.' Other 'enhancements' include the over-the-counter canned oxygen product Big Ox Power Oxygen reportedly used by residents to speed hangover recovery. These forms of experimental subjectivity and collectivity produce unforeseen effects: Doctors said sexually transmitted diseases among senior citizens are running rampant at a popular Central Florida retirement community, according to a Local 6 News report. A gynaecologist at The Villages community near Orlando, Fla., said she treats more cases of herpes and the human papilloma virus in the retirement community than she did in the city of Miami. According to the news report, local doctors attributed this predicament to the ready availability of Viagra within the community, a lack of sexual education, and the non-risk of pregnancy within the age group. It will be suggested here, however, that the broader spatiotemporal construction of The Villages, including golf carts and golf cart infrastructure, downtown public settings, and happy hours, further contribute to the social milieu that promotes enhanced intimacy as well as sexual activity.

No one–and I mean no one!–ever sat me down, nudged me, or gave me the elbow or the wink that getting old would be like this. Why is that?! If I had known, I would have been at least a bit prepared for the cyclone event that would befall me. No elderly person I’ve known ever looked hysterical, ran around panting like a dog, or screamed like a banshee while ripping off their clothes and diving into the sea! So, why no muffled screams from the cheap seats? Why no letter have I received, sealed with an emblem in blood and no return address, simply marked: “Warning—dated material enclosed—Run!” Come on now, elderly people look so cute and sweet. I see them on the bus, at church, on laxative commercials, but always smiling. Have they been warned that if you scream your bloody guts off—you will be banished to Century Park Village, sans any golf cart or Ibuprofen? What I have witnessed my body do in the past 10 years would scare a newborn back into the womb. And trust me, if ‘Seth spoke’, he’d definitely have a few things to say about this shit show! And where the hell is “Bridget Jones’s Diary: Menopocalypse!” Knee-Deep in a Hot Flash!?

I’ll admit I stood there with my fingertips pressed to my lips and watched the sexiest Santa I’ve ever imagined drive away in a golf cart with a miniature Christmas tree on top. Heh. I’ll take Sentences I Never Expected To Say for six hundred, Alex.

The golf cart served as our getaway car, but it turned out a getaway car wasn’t truly a getaway car if you were taking what you wanted to get away from with you.