The afternoon sun glistened through the mighty oaks and spruces that lined my course. Like the colors of the rainbow, the trees and fairway sparkled, and the four-leafed clovers that lined the ruff sang with glee—my day couldn’t have been written more perfect.
I watched as Grandpa Buck teed it up for the third hole. A monster five-hundred-fifty meter, par five dogleg right. Anna, Grandpa’s love designed the course for me before she fell ill, so yes—the course was designed in meters.
A beautiful lake with fountains and waterfalls formed the dogleg and waited to be fed. A smile formed in the waterfall as the golf ball left the tee.
Grandpa Buck let his big dog eat, and the ball ripped through the air like a bullet—a wounded bullet that is. There were only two things in the fifth dimension that would stop it from landing in the lake—a gale force wind or me.
I decided to stop it, but not until listening to Grandpa’s peanut gallery ramble on for a bit. He brought along his crew for moral support. They were following along on the cart path—drinking beers and being obnoxious as always. It was just me, Grandpa, and our caddies playing on my course, and I was the only one playing golf—Grandpa and his pals cheat.
Jack, Grandpa’s best buddy and caddie for the day yelled, “Nice rip Cap’n.”
“Take a mulligan,” yelled Big John, my caddie, and bodyguard. That got him a punch on the arm.
Buck bent over to tee up another ball while his first one was still hooking right. “Mulligan it is,” he said.
“Well, I want a Jameson,” I said.
“What?” Buck managed to blurt out. “You don’t drink.”
“You don’t get it, Grandpa,” I said. “I’m coining a new phase. If you really, and I mean really want something bad, you say, I want a Jameson.”
With that, I raised my hands and stopped time—
I’m Jules Spenser, President of the United States in the fourth and fifth dimension. I have an eidetic mind and can bend spacetime. Grandpa, on the other hand, happens to be a sore loser. It’s not bad enough that I give him a shot a hole—he still cheats and takes a mulligan whenever he sees fit.
I finally had enough of that, too.
My last act of the day before playing golf with Grandpa was to ban two oxymora— mulligans and Congress.
Everyone knows that the opposite of progress is Congress—so I banned it—they’re useless anyway. From now on all laws will be enacted and voted on by the people for the people. Kind of like the Constitution has stated forever.
A mulligan is a do-over. One do-over—that’s it—and now that term is banned forever.
Grandpa’s been in a funk for a year now. His author caught a bad case of writer’s block and left him stranded on K2 at 27,000 feet in The K2 Sanction. The love of his life and my mentor Dr. Anna Semyonova was trapped in an avalanche. They’re kind of stuck in the fourth dimension and aging badly.
I decided to stop time and teleport back to the third dimension to fix things. All the writer really needed was a little reassurance and advice. In other words, he needed to get his act together, too. A happy writer makes happy characters.
And with a snap of my fingers—ok, it’s really not that simple—I’m back in the fifth dimension, and it’s time to set it straight with Grandpa Buck and his cohorts.
“Grandpa, what did I say about taking a mulligan?”
“Ok, fine. I really want a Jameson.”
“That’s better,” I said. “Now look down the fairway.”
“No Grandpa, the word you’re looking for is thank you. When you ask for something sincere and correct—you’re rewarded.”
Not only was his ball sitting pretty in the middle of the fairway, but a third golf cart appeared from nowhere. Anna, the smartest and most beautiful woman on earth—in the fourth and fifth dimension that is—held three bottles: a Jameson Gold, a Jameson Black, and a Jameson not bad at all. “Did someone ask for a Jameson?” Anna asked, in her perfect Russian accent.
“No,” Buck said. “I asked for you, and someone answered.”
“That someone,” Jules said. “Just happens to be Gene Hilgreen. He’s all better now, and soon you and Anna will be, too.