The uproarious sequel to the national bestseller The Money-Whipped Steer-Job Three-Jack Give-Up Artist finds Bobby Joe Grooves at the most critical point in his career--and still hell-bent on challenging PGA decorum and common sense.
Introduced in Dan Jenkins's previous uproarious novel of the pro golf tour, The Money-Whipped Steer-Job Three-Jack Give-Up Artist, Bobby Joe Grooves is now forty-four and still without a win in a major championship. A student of golf lore, Bobby Joe is well aware that only a small group of stars have ever won a major at his age or older, and among them are such immortals as Nicklaus, Boros, Irwin, and Trevino. It's now or never for Bobby Joe, and excuse him for thinking that his chances are slim and none.
So it's off to the Masters, U.S. Open, British Open, and the rest of the PGA Tour for Bobby Joe, who's leaving behind the prospect of a third ex-wife. On the golf courses he'll face familiar competitors such as Knut Thorssun and Cheetah Farmer, but the rival who may loom the largest is the game's newest child star, nineteen-year-old Scott Pritchard. His talents are the talk of the Tour--so is his arrogance--and so, by the way, is his stunning mom, Gwendolyn, a shapely adorable woman who captures Bobby Joe's full attention and threatens not to let go.
Long revered by his peers as one of the world's best sportswriters, and beloved by readers for such classics as Semi-Tough and Dead Solid Perfect, Dan Jenkins is at the top of his form in Slim and None. It's packed with authentic insider gems about each of the majors and hilarious sketches of many of the characters--touring pros, officials, media, agents, caddies, and ladies--who inhabit this outrageous and endearing world of sports.
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May 01, 2006
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Excerpt from Slim and None by Dan Jenkins
It had to be the first bare navel on the Masters veranda. Luckily it came with a shapely adorable. Could have been a bulker. All in all, she was your basic tri-state crime-spree gorgeous. Make you try to eat corn through a chain-link fence, as Cary Grant or Fred Astaire used to say, or maybe it was Grady Don Maples.
Picture this: a long-haired brunette babe poured into a pair of low-hanging stretch jeans looking like the same thing as one of those halftime college showgirls. She stood between the two big trees on the veranda. Her tummy was flat as a West Texas fairway, and she was wearing the minimum legal requirement of a white knit top. This helped her display two tickets that would easily gain her admittance to the hospitality tent at any golf tournament she'd wish to attend.
I should add that she also wore a clubhouse badge for the Masters.
"Screen-saver," Jerry Grimes said alertly.
"Fire in both engines," Grady Don said.
"Riders up," I said.
I don't know that there'd been too many sights at Augusta to equal that one. Usually the veranda was a gathering of geezers in their green jackets, scads of privileged folks sitting at tables under bright umbrellas, scattered groups of serious business execs looking worried about something, and assorted media intellectuals shopping around for scoops and scandals.
As a rule, the serious business execs would be talking to each other, their hands clasped behind their backs while they rocked back and forth in their FootJoys. They could be equipment salesmen, they could be the dapper officials of various golf organizations, or they could be powerful sports agents, but if they were powerful sports agents their eyes would be darting this way and that, and they'd have a tendency to bite their nails.
Assorted wives of Tour pros frequently emerged from indoors--two lookers, say, and one bulker. They would have dined upstairs on the balcony, where they'd discussed maladies, child-rearing, exercise classes, difficult mothers-in-law, catalog orders.
Players' wives have changed over the years. I wasn't around when they were all needlepoint ladies, but I'd been around long enough to see the lookers go from stately former yearbook favorites to Barbie dolls that could actually make noises like human beings talking.
We'd walked up on the roped-off veranda after our Tuesday practice round. I'd smiled at the two security guards who were stationed there to keep out the K mart shoppers. That's when we spotted the shapely screen-saver displaying her finest features.
She was obviously at the magnolia joint for the first time. If she was trying to arouse any of the gentlemen on the veranda, she was making a mistake. Most of the veranda gentlemen were on the high side of sixty and were more likely to be aroused by the report of a new oversized driver that would give them fifteen more yards.
Jerry Grimes said, "It's too bad that lovely thing happens to be the asshole's mother, Bobby Joe."
"That's no mother," I said. "I know what mothers look like. Mothers look like Betty Crocker."
"Mothers look like Cheerios?"
"Detergent . . . type of thing."
Grady Don Maples said, "I guess she don't crochet a lot, but she's still the asshole's mother."
"Which asshole?" I said. "I have choices."
"Scott Pritchard," Grady Don said. "That's old Gwendolyn Pritchard, it sure is. Scott's mom. Right there with her steel belly and her lung problem. Kill me first, Gwen."
"That's the child star's mother?"
I must have blurted it out. The dapper official of a golf organization glared at me. Guy in a dark blue blazer, white shirt, striped tie, red face. Looked like he knew for a fact that I ate with my hands.