Dueling Douche Bags in the New Jersey Night

Friedman and I once went to hit golfballs at a NJ driving range on a Saturday night some time in the 1980s.  Neither of us had ever done it and we both sucked badly at it. Standing side by side we snorted and giggled as we hit dribblers and sideways three hoppers.  Almost assuredly we were also somewhat intoxicated as we tried to drive golfballs for the first time.  

Making the obvious assumption of the homophobic day (and fair enough, given the optics), two self-respecting macho Jerseyites walking to their cars behind us loudly exchanged a sneering comment about the two girlish fags taking their homo hacks. Nowadays that witless comment seems hideous but quaint, but at the time, the words made my ears burn.

My next swing was like Mantle driving a golf ball, I hit it flush and sent a long drive to the back of the lot there (my only decent shot of the night).  

I could swear I heard the two homos behind me clam up simultaneously.  Very satisfied, I felt, as I hit the next sixty sissified dribblers, although Friedman and I, more self-conscious now, tried a bit harder to suppress our giggles.

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