It started like any other trip to the grocery store: me, my car, and a mission for bread and coffee. But then I spotted them. Another car pulling into the lot at the exact same time. Two vehicles. One lot. Destiny. I don’t know who threw the first punch — maybe it was when they rolled a little too confidently past the cart return, or maybe when I flicked my blinker with just enough aggression to make a point. But suddenly, the air shifted. We weren’t just parking anymore. We were racing. The lot became a track. Aisle by aisle, turn by turn, we jockeyed for position. They cut wide past the garden center. I hugged the inside lane like I was trying to slingshot out of Talladega. The stakes were obvious: whoever made the better move here… would own the day. Shoppers froze mid-cart. One guy dropped a bag of chips and whispered, “It’s happening.” A kid climbed onto the hood of a minivan, chanting “Go! Go! Go!” like it was the Kentucky Derby. My opponent’s brake lights flashed — a feint? A sign of weakness? I floored it, hitting a blistering 12 miles per hour. The crowd gasped. Somewhere, a car alarm went off as if to punctuate the moment. They countered hard, weaving past a Prius like it was a stationary cone. I nearly clipped a runaway cart, swerving so tight the groceries in the backseat shifted. Sweat dripped. My knuckles whitened. Somewhere in the distance, I swore I heard a NASCAR commentator yelling, “Boogity, boogity, boogity — let’s go parking, boys!” We were neck-and-neck now, side by side down the center lane, two middle-aged warriors locked in silent combat. Tires squealed. Hearts pounded. The deli worker lit a cigarette just to steady his nerves. And then… the final turn. Time slowed. I could see the whites of their eyes. My blinker clicked like a countdown to judgment day. One last push, one final burst of horsepower, and I slid into position like a gladiator claiming the arena. When the dust settled, when the shopping carts stopped rattling, when the spectators dared to breathe again… I looked up at the sign in front of me. Handicap Parking. All that for twenty feet closer to the door. And now that I’ve got my handicap tag, parking may never be the same.
Cart Whisperer (That’s Right — $350 Flat Rate, No Refunds)
I finally found my calling. It ain’t in sales. It ain’t in preaching. It sure as hell ain’t in physical labor. Nah, friend — turns out I was born to drive a golf cart. Not play golf. Not caddie. Not “assist.” Just drive the damn cart… and make the whole damn day better by being there. That’s it. That’s the gig. They call me the Cart Whisperer now. And by they, I mean me. But still. 🪑 So what do you get for your $350? A caddie? Nope. A life coach? Hell no. You get a fully licensed, emotionally detached, whiskey-voiced, middle-aged man who knows how to: Brake smooth. Accelerate with confidence. Play music just loud enough to scare off your thoughts, but not your sponsors. 🍺 What I do: Say things like “Mmm… bold choice with the 7 iron” as you chunk it 40 yards. Point out squirrels mid-backswing. Laugh at your bad shots before you do, so you don’t have to pretend it’s funny later. Call out “Hell yeah, that dog’ll hunt!” anytime a shot stays remotely airborne. I keep the cart moving, your pride alive, and your beer cold. I’m basically the human version of a glove compartment — useless until you need me, then suddenly I’m all you can think about. 🧼 What I don’t do: Clean your balls (grow up). Rake bunkers (I ain’t the grounds crew). Offer advice (“aim left” ain’t advice — it’s a prayer). Pretend like this isn’t a midlife crisis in khaki shorts. 🚩 A few bonuses: I do not care about your scorecard. If anything, I’ll fudge it higher for humility. I will absolutely stop the cart mid-hole to stare at a hawk like it’s a sign from God. I tell stories that may or may not be true but feel true, which is more important. 🛻 Why me? Because you’ve golfed with your “buddies.” You’ve paid for swing tips from some 19-year-old who ain’t lived long enough to know regret. You’ve had “fun” before. But you ain’t never had a round with The Cart Whisperer. I’m the upgrade you didn’t know your country club needed. I’m what happens when Southern wisdom, medical leave, and a gas-powered vehicle collide. I don’t even watch golf. But I’ll make you feel like your round matters… at least to the cart. $350. Cash. No refunds. No regrets. Only vibes, velocity, and very questionable commentary.