The Tim Henry Story

Yes, Tim Henry is just one man. And to be honest, I'm really not even sure what his real name is. But here's his story.

November 23rd, 1967. It was a cold and awful morning. Believe me, the wind was REALLY blowing. Shit was flying everywhere. The only conceivable location? Cleveland, Ohio. Who was being conceived? Tim Henry.

Mr. Henry was bitching out one of his maids because she hadn't screwed up anything on the job in her first six months of work.

"You're human, aren't you? Make a mistake you worthless wench!"

Mr. Henry also had a HUGE mole on the side of his face. So he was pissed about that, too. But midway through the conversation, he realizes that he hasn't had sex in 12 years. A fastidious man at heart, Mr. Henry decided when he was 11 that he really WAS better off without being anybody's friend. He soon became a Gazillionaire. But after many years of becoming really freakin' old, he realized that he wanted to raise a bastard son to continue his legacy. So now this maid was a target.

It took a little convincing, but $11.267 million dollars later the maid agreed to give birth to his bastard son.

After the maid confirmed that she was indeed pregnant, Mr. Henry sued her for negligence (he felt that she should've insisted on using a condom). The lawyers kicked some major ass because they all agreed with Mr. Henry: he should've never been allowed to try his hand at procreation. So Mr. Henry won back $11 million.

Having lost exactly $267,000 in Vegas, the maid was now at Mr. Henry's doorstep begging for a place to stay. He finally agreed, realizing that his bastard son would be better off living in the same house so that it was all but a certainty that his son would grow up to be a bastard.

But the maid was plotting her revenge. During the pregnancy, she smoked crack, weed, and cigarettes. In addition, she tried blow, smack, and some kind of horse tranquilizer. She also liked to down a few cocktails before hitting the sack. Where did she get all of this stuff? Well that's a different story. But trust me, she was doing EVERYTHING. She would even eat some of the grass on the lawn trying to turn the child into a cow.

Nine months later, something flew out of the maid SIDEWAYS and landed in a crib. The bastard son was born at last.

Mr. Henry was so overjoyed that he slapped the maid instead of the baby. A perfectly acceptable decision at the time, but he would soon realize his mistake: the baby's reflexes would never fully develop. And neither would a lot of other things, because the maid and the rest of the house staff ended up raising the boy.

Tragically, the father had a stroke soon after he realized that his son was slightly retarded and lacked any real motivation for anything.

But Mr. Henry had never gotten around to changing his will. Everything was still being given to Tim. Without any reliable motor skills or motivation, the court realized that Tim would become a lump of crap if he was ever left without supervision.

So the maid and the rest of the house staff raised him. The only problem? They did everything for him. He never learned to do anything on his own.

At the age of 18 he was still working on the fourth grade. Thoroughly impressed with the boy’s progress, the board of directors at Mr. Henry's old company--The Cleveland Steamers--soon appointed him CEO.

And so it came to pass, that after years of falling asleep in board meetings, movie theatres and sexual acts, Tim Henry awoke on the morning of May 29th, 2005 dressed in golf attire.

“Why am I in golf clothes?” He said as he stared off into space.

Somehow, today was different. Normally he would wake up for no reason and stare at the woman next to him, trying to remember who she was. It was only after he took his morning BM that it would finally make sense to him: oh yeah. That’s my wife. We’ve like…done stuff together.

Usually he would spend the next 20 minutes trying to remember her name, but today he was unable to focus for some reason. Was it because he just farted? He couldn’t be sure. But he was definitely feeling a little more “dead-pan” than usual today. A stream of drool starts to move over his left cheek. Suddenly he snaps to.

“Well I’m wearing clothes. Why not drive my car?” He said to the coffee maker.

And so he drove. And then he drove some more. He wasn’t exactly sure WHERE he was going, but he definitely had a feeling that he’d be SOMEWHERE soon.

And before he knew it, he WAS.

“How did I end up at this golf course?” He said with Keanu-esque precision.

“Sir? May I park your car for you?”

“Why?”

“You’re playing golf today.”

“Why?”

“They’ve been expecting you.”

“They have?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

After staring at a squirrel on a tree for awhile, a man in a cart came by and picked him up. He was escorted to the first tee, and three men who he’s never met before knew his name and had most definitely met him before. Weird.

Then I came into the picture. After introducing myself, I realized he must either be on drugs or slightly retarded, and formulated this little story in my mind. So at least now everyone’s on the same page.

As I mentioned in the last post, my loop yesterday sucked big hairy balls, and I was curious as to my assignment for today. Because, as I said, if the pattern were to continue, today would be quite profitable.

Well it was. I got in a little late this morning, and I was half-expecting to sit around and watch Ace Ventura for the 10th time. But they ended up putting me out on a loop in no time. Turns out one of the guys I’d be looping for was a regular for one of the big-wig senior caddies. That could only mean one thing. Lots of cold hard cash. Because these senior caddies only loop for their regulars these days. And their regulars pay top dollar to keep them coming back.

So I was pretty floored when I heard the news. All of the caddies in the office were talking about it before I was called.

“Who's going out with Mr. Rich today?”

“That’s a great loop. I heart beer.”

Pause.

“Tom, get ready.”

Holy crap-bag.

I was really kind of nervous when I heard the news, because if this player is used to a SENIOR caddie, he’s GOT to be a little peeved that a rookie is working for him. MAN I need to learn how to read these greens.

But overall, today was a great loop. I got to see Tim Henry, a guy who had no idea what was going on, start to figure stuff out by the 12th. I was getting along with Mr. Rich. I mean, I even learned the other caddie’s “slave name.”

I heard about this little “problem” on the second hole.

“Dude, this guy I’m caddying for? He thinks my name is ‘Gyles.’”

“Gyles?”

“Yeah. I mean, I feel my name is pretty easy to begin with. It’s not like I make it hard for them. But he keeps calling me Gyles. It happened at this other course I used to work at too. I guess it’s just my ‘slave name.’”

For 9 holes, I thought he was bullshitting me. But then on 10, his player turned to him and said, “So Gyles, what do you see on this putt?”

The caddie just stared at me and shook his head. It was hilarious. I mean, Gyles? That’s not even a REAL name outside of England. And even there I think it was only used in medieval times to name Knights. Sir Gyles rings a bell for some reason. But I knew how this caddie felt. A few weeks ago those two older guys called me “Tom” the whole round even though…that…IS my real name. Well, I just thought it was funny.

I think the only other memorable thing from that round was this father-son team the other caddie was taking care of. The father had a HUGE wooden pole jammed up his ass the whole round. His posture was RIDICULOUSLY rigid. And I think he liked it because he stuck his ass out quite a bit. A little excessive in my book. I mean, I’m all for good posture. But we’re not shooting porn here. Tuck that butt in a little, Sir.

Now the butt I can deal with, but the father was also SO commanding over his son that I wanted to say something after a while. He would tell his son how hard to swing, where to aim, what club to hit, and how far to hang his ass out.

“Don’t stop looking provocative until you can balance a glass of Riesling on your ass. That’s the real key to good golf swing. I mean look at Leadbetter’s ass. That’s WAY out there. His ass is GREAT.”

“Yes dad!”

Dude, you’re MY age. Start thinking for yourself.

But the kid was on fire. His dad would dial in every shot for him, and 80-90% of the time, the kid would execute. He was hitting his 8-iron about 170, and he knew absolutely NOTHING about golf. Made me sick.

“Son, I told you to hit that putt softly. What the hell are you doing? Focus, okay?”

“Yes dad!”

“No no no. You need to make sure when you putt that your practice stroke matches your real stroke. It’s a necessity. Now drink the glass of Riesling that’s currently resting on my left butt-cheek. I want to save the one on my right for later.”

“Yes dad! I hope to be able to balance two glasses of Riesling on my ass someday!”

“Well if you would LISTEN to me, you would.”

“Yes dad! Sorry dad!”

Ugh. It was bad. But the boss took care of me. I made some good money off of that loop. But of course, if the pattern WERE to continue, my next loop should suck some serious balls. So we’ll see. Take it easy everyone.