Mulligan Man,
     I've always wondered about this, but why don't golf carts have seat belts?  Signed ...  Curious
Dear Mr. Curious,
     They say a golfer's legacy can be etched in coveted hacker history if their last breaths are taken on on a golf course.  Whether it's by a heart attack, or struck by lightening, or getting nutted in the noggin' with a Titliest, if you are on sacred golf ground when it happens, that's really cool.  That way all of your golf buddies can speak at your eulogy and use cheesy catch phrases like "he died doing what he loved."  Which brings me to your golf cart question.  No seat belts enhance the chances that you'll get killed in a bad cart accident.  After all, getting ejected from a golf cart and having it land on you may sounds better than the truth if you survive..  The truth might be that you're now a quadrapelgic who sustained serious non-fatal injuries when you tried to do something really stupid like Evil Knivel your cart off an elevated tee box to win a $20 bet; with a cigar in one hand, and a  blood alcohol level high enough to put a horse down.  At that point, death might be a better alternative than listening to your wife tell you that you're stupid and having your friends laugh at you.  Remember, the catch phrase is "he died doing what he loved," not ... "man, he got messed up doing something really stupid!"  ... MM
(Editor Note:  But seriously folks, quit screwing around in them carts!  According to statistics compiled from the US Consumer Products Safety Commission, 13,000 golf cart related accidents require emergency room visits EVERY YEAR.  That's 36 every day!  I would rather play 36, than be one of the 36.)

Hey Mulligan Dude,
     I need to share one of the strangest golf days of my life.  Every Saturday for the past nine years, I've headed to my local course to play with the usual group of drunks, hackers, and buddies, and also my drunk hacker buddies.  However last Saturday, as if a higher-power answered my prayers, I was paired up with this absolutely beautiful hottie in a rare twilight twosome.  On a scale of one to 10, she was at least a 12 and had an aura about her that just screamed exotic.  Her name was Mercedes, an aspiring model, who like the luxury car had all of her curves in the right places.  She was in town for a photo shoot.  Not that I cared, but the 5'6" brunette confessed that she was an absolutely horrible golfer.  Well needless to say, we hit it off pretty good, even when she started piping balls down the middle, hitting greens in regulation, and sinking putts. She made the turn with a 42.  When I questioned her newfound talents, Mercedes swore she was a 30-plus handicapper on a good day and credited me for all of her good luck.  The fact that she wreaked of smoldering hotness obscured the fact that she was beating me by two strokes.
     Mercedes luck continued on the back nine.  She was shooting lights out and was giddy with the results.  She swore that this had never happened before and that I must have been sent by the golf-Gods.  She pars 13, 14, and 15, birdies 16 and 17 and has a 76 going into the par-4 finishing hole.  Once again, she claims I'm her lucky rabbits foot.  This is where it got real interesting.  As we're driving up to the 18th tee box, she leans over and in a sultry -  made for a phone-sex line voice - whispers in my ear that if she breaks 80, she is going to sleep with me.  Did that just happen?  Somebody, please pinch me!    However, I was realistic, knowing that meant three-birdies in a row, or in my language, another lonely night at home with the TV remote and a cold shower.
     She bends over to tee up her ball, which should be a PAY-PER-VIEW event, lines up, and nails yet another drive into the heart of the fairway.  My heart starts racing because I've always wanted to drive a Mercedes.  I wasted no time shanking mine OB, but it didn't matter because I was enjoying more impure thoughts than swing thoughts.
      As she straddled her next shot, a tricky little seven-iron, all I could think of was three words .... STICK IT CLOSE!   Much to my sex life's dismay, Mercedes thinned the shot and her ball bounced up the fairway and rolled to the very back of the huge green.  A birdie and the night of my dreams would require a tricky triple-breaking 40-footer.  I was absolutely crushed.  I've got what ... a 1 in 10,000 chance of her making it?   I walk up to the green with her, trying to hid my utter disappointment.  I didn't know what to say.  I wanted to offer her words of encouragement, with the slight chance that my odds would improve.   What I want to know Mulligan Man is what should I have said? ... Signed Mr. Heartbroken! 
Mr. Heartbroken,
"Pick it up!"  ... MM     ... (MORE) ...