Practical Jokes Part Deux

Ladies I'm back! Sorry I have been off the net as of late...or perhaps this was a much appreciated respite from my blathering. I have been off doing work stuff. I also apologize for missing the Vegas buffoonery; Golf junkets don't fit well into the family schedule right now, something (ahem) new fathers will soon come to realize. Let me regale one of my better golf practical jokes and see if one of you Vegas Vagabonds can pull a topper in between 6 foot gimmes and hostess ass grabs. Working in the bag room while growing up (I may actually complete the process in another year or two) there are certain members who you come to hate viscerally. You know the ones, they cleave to their 100lb Burton suede staff bags, loaded with a small Filipino family, soaked with enough old skin oil to power you through an LA heat wave. Well, this 13 year old, 160lb attendent had hoisted this bag for the last time up to the second rack (said owner refused to go lower rack because he felt his clubs got "clanked" in the traffic flow) and I set the plan in motion. I was going to get this clown to quit the game someway, somehow. Now, this human hockey puck claimed to have been a tour pro back when the earth was cooling, but couldn't break an egg with sledgehammer let alone 80. He purchased a brand new set of butterknives in the form of these Tony Pena blades that even that famous Canadian (oxymoron here) swing genius, Moe whatshisfuck, couldn't hit. Friday afternoon, after Mr X gloats how he has two primo tee times this weekend and to make sure his new tools are well sanitized, I set out to change the loft a two full clubs stronger on my handy loft/lie machine for every iron in his bag. He comes in after his Saturday round about as excited and shakey as that Taco Bell dog...high as a kite 'cause he was pounding the ball over the green all day..."this clubs are the heat," he exclaims! Yes I did, that evening I bent them all back the other way to a full two clubs weak. The next AM we followed Mr X around secretly ('cept the howls and guffaws of laughter) as he would smooth a swing and hold his TV pose as the ball fell hopelessly twenty to thirty yards short of the green. By the end of his round, he went straight from 18 green to his trunk lid, abandoning his cart and clubs 30 meters from the cart return area...as I yelled, "Sir, you need to pull the cart all the way in, your coming up short!" We altered his clubs for the next two weekends and even delofted his putter a little for emphasis (this will really make your ball hop). Victory was mine, as that side of cow and now somewhat warped set of clubs grew dusty and quiet way back on that second rack for the rest of my tenure.