Chatter

Chatter: (n) incessant trivial talk.

I make a practice to never refer to myself as an artist.

Using that term is similar to someone who has sex calling himself a lover, or folks who occasionally have a garage sale in their front yard
deeming themselves to be entrepreneurs.

Truthfully, because we’re all a little insecure about the quality and veracity of what we do, we chatter on to try to magnify our significance to the yawning yokels.

How many times do I need to explain what I do before you are truly impressed?

How many different ways can I exaggerate my abilities, hoping deep in my heart that you will finally understand that I am better than you?

Chatter is what people do when they are nervously afraid they can’t cover the time alloted with simple truth.

So they elaborate. They use words like “interesting, wonderful, great, amazing and awesome” at diabolical rates. And they smile a lot, hoping what they have to share is not only convincing, but dazzling.

A wise man once said that it is much smarter to answer questions “yes” and “no.” He contended that anything other than this is usually born of evil.

If by evil you mean the incessant clatter of chatter that doesn’t matter, then…

Amen.

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Caddie

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Caddie: (n) a person who carries a golfer’s clubs

Mike was always trying to figure out ways to make money. He was a fifteen-year-old entrepreneur before anybody was prepared to spell or
pronounce the word.

He liked me.

Now, Mike weighed about 122 pounds. I also weighed 122 pounds–but stored 150 more as a backup. So Mike had a lot of stamina. I just had a lot.

Mike had the brilliant idea of going to the new golf course just outside our town and offering his service as a caddie to our limited supply of financially successful people. He did it for two or three weekends, and came back with… cash.

At fifteen years of age, I so infrequently saw money that it seemed almost mystical and certainly magical.

Mike convinced me that I should take my 270-plus pounds and go out with him the next weekend to caddie at the golf center. He explained that it was nothing more than going on a long walk. (I should have realized at that point that it had been many years since I had been on a long walk. My personal preference was a long drive.)

But I agreed and arrived at the gold course at 8:00 A. M. sharp to carry the bags for Mr. Fundergetz. Now, I’m sure that’s not his real name, but he said it with a German accent so quickly that the best I could ascertain was “Fundergetz.” Most of the morning I opted to call him “sir.”

I had not realized that golf courses were measured in yards–and this was before anyone had thought about using a golf cart. By the time I reached the third hole, carrying the bags and trying to keep up with Fundergetz, I was panting, sweating down the insides of my legs and so flushed in the face that he became concerned for me and asked me to sit down while he ran and got some ice for my forehead.

After a few moments of recuperation, I said, “I’m fine now, and it won’t be too much longer, right?”

At this point, Fundergetz explained to me that it was an eighteen-hole golf course and we were only one-sixth of the way through.

Noting the fear on my face, my trembling brow and a tear coming to the corner of my eye, he showed mercy on me, handed me two dollars and asked if I could make it back to the clubhouse on my own.

I was so humiliated.

Mike was so disappointed.

I was completely emasculated by the whole experience.

So when I arrived back at the clubhouse to complete my restoration, I got two hot dogs, a coke and a Baby Ruth candy bar.

It is amazing how good they made me feel.

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