The Lama

So I've got a tee time at Tibet National, in the Himalayas, of course. I've got on my best, most flowing robes and have freshly shaved my head, ready for a big day on the course. I must say I looked striking. Anyway, my regular caddie was practicing his chanting that day, so I needed a caddie. The caddie master assigns me this whacko named Carl. Spackler, I think was his last name. I find him taking swings at the flowers along the cart path and mumbling something about being the Masters champion. Like I said, a whacko. On the first tee Carl hands me my R11 and I haul off and whack one -- I'm a big hitter, you know, long -- into a ten-thousand foot crevice, right at the base of this glacier. Of course, I'm pissed. *But being the Dali Lama, I can't curse, so I say, "Gunga galunga...gunga -- gunga galunga" (translation: "Rat farts!"). Carl doesn't shut up the entire round, babbling about some gopher that haunts his dreams. We mercifully finish the eighteenth and he's looking for a tip. "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." He drove me crazy all afternoon, so there's no way I'm tipping him. *Instead, I offer this bit of nonsense: "There won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consiousness." And he loves it! *Thank buddha I got him off my case. Later, on my walk back to the monastery, I hear him telling the story to another looper, bragging that "I got that goin' for me, which is nice". What a nut!

Golf, skinny-skiing and going to bullfights on acid