The Dirty Ankle Mafia - coming to TGC2019
Aug 15, 2018 17:48:56 GMT -5
DoubtfulObelisk, statelyowl, and 4 more like this
Post by Deleted on Aug 15, 2018 17:48:56 GMT -5
In a recent meeting at Nesbit Golf Management headquarters in Monaco, Head Golf Professional Curtis Cockerill and Master Superintendent Terry Grayson strode through the mahogany doors of the boardroom and took their places at the massive handcrafted teak table with ornate fleur de lis inlays in Italian walnut and Tahitian rosewood. Cockerill savored the faintly musky scent of the deep-diamond Cordoba leather armchairs, knowing that he might be relishing it for the last time if this didn't go well. For his part, Grayson absently worked the toothpick between his remaining lower molars, knowing that there were still traces of menthol Copenhagen clinging to his gums -- despite the fact that he'd spat out a massive wad of Virginia's finest chew as they'd entered the lobby some 27 floors below.
Eric always kept them waiting. Somehow, NGM CEO Eric Nesbit -- a man used to working to deadlines -- had never really mastered the skill of punctuality when it came to in-house appointments. In stark contrast, Cockerill, a commercial pilot prior to his days with NGM, was a man who lived by the clock. The fact that he still wore a Swiss-made IWC aviator's timepiece hinted at his love for flying. The $9,000 price tag of the chronograph merely underscored that fact.
While the former jet jockey was a man of discerning tastes, his colleague, Grayson, was less concerned with the accoutrements of a fine presentation, as evidenced by the orange Cheeto dust still encrusting his fingers after a morning chomp, which satisfied neither hunger nor health concerns. He was a man acutely aware of his limitations, and he strove to live well beneath them.
They sat in silence -- a study in the utmost contrast. Yet, as their boss, Eric Nesbit, would soon discover, they did in fact have something in common. As Shakespeare once noted: "...a man, in his time, plays many parts." And so it was with Cockerill and Grayson. They had their roles within the organization, but neither were satisfied, and had the signed resignations in hand to prove it. The antique grandfather clock near the door tick-tocked relentlessly, with each swing of the pendulum bringing them closer and closer to a confrontation that Nesbit would never see coming.
Just as it was with his design projects, Nesbit was late to the meeting and slow to enter the room. He peered across the boardroom to find a well-dressed Cockerill, not-so-subtly looking at his expensive watch as if to let the CEO know that he was on borrowed time. Meanwhile, Grayson sat slouched in his leather chair, a posture a kin to being at home naked in his recliner watching a rerun of Cops, sucking the orange remnants from his fingertips, mindlessly staring out the 27th floor window, likely in amazement at the civilized, urban population below. As if to flip the middle finger at Nesbit and all his professionalism, Grayson elected to attend this meeting in his ripped jean shorts, dusty old crocs, and cut-off t-shirt that read "Where the heck is Dirty Ankle?". But alas, as Nesbit approached the head of the table and sat down, both men fixed their eyes in his direction.
Curtis was the first to speak, "Eric, you know we've enjoyed being partn..." He didn't get far before Grayson interrupted. "It's a dag-gum shame, really, that it took the cruel death of my dear Pithbitwood to finally make me realize that your properties lack both quality, AND security, and this tragedy stands above any good-natured, belly-laughing, goat-ranch design jokes we've shared together," bellowed Grayson. It was almost hard to take him seriously with that deep southern drawl as he spoke, combined with the toothpick flopping up and down, but Nesbit knew this wasn't the time to be laughing, because it was well-known that Grayson didn't take too kindly to the murder of Pithbitwood, his absolute favorite goat, which to this day Justin Ciboch claims was caused by an errant tee shot rather than a premeditated beastial homicide. Nesbit, and now Cockerill for that matter, were giving Grayson their undivided attention as he got heated up. "For the better part of the last year, Nesbit Golf Management has meticulously, and SLOWLY, released golf course designs that were play-tested by our PGA professional here, given literary life in promotional material by our Marketing Director Rob Scott, and then manicured to the highest quality possible by yours truly -- but times, they are a changing!" barked Grayson. "We dema..." Terry's voice was starting to rise, so Curtis broke back in to try to level the dialogue and bring some clarity to the reason this meeting was requested.
"As I was going to say, and what Terry is so passionate about, is that we have enjoyed being a part of Nesbit Golf Management, but we've sacrificed a lot on your behalf, and would like to resign our current positions within the organization -- in order to propose a new organizational structure for the future, one where each of us carry an equa..." and once again Terry bursts into the conversation like a bull in a China shop, now leaning forward in his chair while wiping the remaining Cheeto dust and saliva from his fingers onto his built-in napkin, those God-awful jean shorts. "DAM right!" Grayson bellowed, "the Dirty Ankle Mafia!"
At that moment, Grayson shoved his resignation letter across the table in Nesbit's general direction, and peeking out from underneath the slightly crinkled marble stock paper, likely purchased from the local Kinko's copy center on his way into town, was a glossy marketing piece that looked far too professional for it to be originating from the same grungy source. Nesbit reached out and slid the colorful piece from underneath the bland resignation letter, immediately confronted by a frightening picture of Pithbitwood in the center of a crest, surrounded by photos of what, upon closer examination, proved to be all of the courses these friends had been a part of over the last 15 months. He couldn't help but notice the juxtaposition of the gorgeous golf courses surrounding a somewhat ridiculous looking core, but he wasn't emotionally prepared for what he'd see when he turned the card over.
Nesbit slammed his hands down on the massive boardroom table as he stood up, the backs of his knees shoving the leather chair backward hard enough that it scurried three feet across the carpet, finally coming to rest against the cherry trim on the wall. "You mean to tell me that Rob is in on this, too?!" he yelled, after seeing the Wet Beaver Creations logo. "Well of course he is dummy," Grayson barked, "we're all sick and tired of contributing to your proj..." and once again Cockerill had to interject to keep these two hot-heads from coming to one of their deck-measuring contests.
"Terry, just cool it, let's not make this more than it needs to be! What we're here to discuss today is something that we feel could be the next step, not only for NGM, but for our corporations, too. I know for a fact that Dirty Ankle Designs (DAD) is ready to bring more courses to market after the strong showing of The Kraken in a recent contest, and I will be taking Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (WTF) Designs to the next level as well, and with Rob's support of our efforts from a marketing standpoint, we just feel it's time to restructure into a more balanced..."
"Balance shmalance -- what we want is an equal share of the profits, plain and simple," Terry announced. "You obviously can't give my precious goat new life, so it's time to up the ante on our partnership. We're here today to resign from NGM, which will cripple your design business significantly if you let us walk away." "Or limp, in your case," Nesbit grumbled sarcastically.
"Our proposal is simple," Curtis said. "All we're asking for is a partnership, we still want to be here and remain involved with NGM, but we want to branch out as well. Think of the things we could do, not only individually, but if we collaborate on course designs as well! We've come today to offer you an equal share in the Dirty Ankle Mafia syndicate -- and yes, Rob is with us, so let's take this thing to the next level. What do you say?" Curtis finished.
"You's either with us, or without us now. We can take your goat-ranch pictures right off this brochure no problem if y..." Nesbit couldn't wait to shut him up, so he interrupted again. "Fine, I'm in! I don't know what you're so cranky about you grimy hillbilly. All you had to do was ask. This was never about me for my own sake, I was happy to have the help out in the field, but if you weren't happy, all you had to do was say so. Show a little class, would you? I'd be thrilled to see what this group could come up with in 2019, but you'll have to drop the attitude for this to work. You come in here like a gunslinger, but it's not like you're the designer of El Pistolero or something!"
And with that, Curtis and Terry stood up to be eye-to-eye with the already standing former CEO and extended their hands. Nesbit reached first for Curtis, applying a gentlemanly shake and looking him in the eye with that affirming glare they'd become accustomed to needing from time to time -- the look that says, "Thanks for keeping this crazy John Wayne wannabe in check." As he turned to Terry, though, Nesbit couldn't help but remember the slimy Cheeto fingers from a few minutes ago, and casually reached beyond Terry's hand to give him a manly slap on the shoulder, careful not to touch the arm hair creeping out from beyond the edges of his sleeveless shirt.
As they turned to walk out the door, Nesbit couldn't help but get the last word in. "Guys, I'm all-in on the Mafia, no hard feelings. But just remember, if you want an empire like this," he said as he motioned with his arm around the extravagant boardroom and pointed out the 27th floor window, "you'll need to design something that HB covets, not just some large decks with no seating."
------------
COMING SOON!
Eric always kept them waiting. Somehow, NGM CEO Eric Nesbit -- a man used to working to deadlines -- had never really mastered the skill of punctuality when it came to in-house appointments. In stark contrast, Cockerill, a commercial pilot prior to his days with NGM, was a man who lived by the clock. The fact that he still wore a Swiss-made IWC aviator's timepiece hinted at his love for flying. The $9,000 price tag of the chronograph merely underscored that fact.
While the former jet jockey was a man of discerning tastes, his colleague, Grayson, was less concerned with the accoutrements of a fine presentation, as evidenced by the orange Cheeto dust still encrusting his fingers after a morning chomp, which satisfied neither hunger nor health concerns. He was a man acutely aware of his limitations, and he strove to live well beneath them.
They sat in silence -- a study in the utmost contrast. Yet, as their boss, Eric Nesbit, would soon discover, they did in fact have something in common. As Shakespeare once noted: "...a man, in his time, plays many parts." And so it was with Cockerill and Grayson. They had their roles within the organization, but neither were satisfied, and had the signed resignations in hand to prove it. The antique grandfather clock near the door tick-tocked relentlessly, with each swing of the pendulum bringing them closer and closer to a confrontation that Nesbit would never see coming.
Just as it was with his design projects, Nesbit was late to the meeting and slow to enter the room. He peered across the boardroom to find a well-dressed Cockerill, not-so-subtly looking at his expensive watch as if to let the CEO know that he was on borrowed time. Meanwhile, Grayson sat slouched in his leather chair, a posture a kin to being at home naked in his recliner watching a rerun of Cops, sucking the orange remnants from his fingertips, mindlessly staring out the 27th floor window, likely in amazement at the civilized, urban population below. As if to flip the middle finger at Nesbit and all his professionalism, Grayson elected to attend this meeting in his ripped jean shorts, dusty old crocs, and cut-off t-shirt that read "Where the heck is Dirty Ankle?". But alas, as Nesbit approached the head of the table and sat down, both men fixed their eyes in his direction.
Curtis was the first to speak, "Eric, you know we've enjoyed being partn..." He didn't get far before Grayson interrupted. "It's a dag-gum shame, really, that it took the cruel death of my dear Pithbitwood to finally make me realize that your properties lack both quality, AND security, and this tragedy stands above any good-natured, belly-laughing, goat-ranch design jokes we've shared together," bellowed Grayson. It was almost hard to take him seriously with that deep southern drawl as he spoke, combined with the toothpick flopping up and down, but Nesbit knew this wasn't the time to be laughing, because it was well-known that Grayson didn't take too kindly to the murder of Pithbitwood, his absolute favorite goat, which to this day Justin Ciboch claims was caused by an errant tee shot rather than a premeditated beastial homicide. Nesbit, and now Cockerill for that matter, were giving Grayson their undivided attention as he got heated up. "For the better part of the last year, Nesbit Golf Management has meticulously, and SLOWLY, released golf course designs that were play-tested by our PGA professional here, given literary life in promotional material by our Marketing Director Rob Scott, and then manicured to the highest quality possible by yours truly -- but times, they are a changing!" barked Grayson. "We dema..." Terry's voice was starting to rise, so Curtis broke back in to try to level the dialogue and bring some clarity to the reason this meeting was requested.
"As I was going to say, and what Terry is so passionate about, is that we have enjoyed being a part of Nesbit Golf Management, but we've sacrificed a lot on your behalf, and would like to resign our current positions within the organization -- in order to propose a new organizational structure for the future, one where each of us carry an equa..." and once again Terry bursts into the conversation like a bull in a China shop, now leaning forward in his chair while wiping the remaining Cheeto dust and saliva from his fingers onto his built-in napkin, those God-awful jean shorts. "DAM right!" Grayson bellowed, "the Dirty Ankle Mafia!"
At that moment, Grayson shoved his resignation letter across the table in Nesbit's general direction, and peeking out from underneath the slightly crinkled marble stock paper, likely purchased from the local Kinko's copy center on his way into town, was a glossy marketing piece that looked far too professional for it to be originating from the same grungy source. Nesbit reached out and slid the colorful piece from underneath the bland resignation letter, immediately confronted by a frightening picture of Pithbitwood in the center of a crest, surrounded by photos of what, upon closer examination, proved to be all of the courses these friends had been a part of over the last 15 months. He couldn't help but notice the juxtaposition of the gorgeous golf courses surrounding a somewhat ridiculous looking core, but he wasn't emotionally prepared for what he'd see when he turned the card over.
Nesbit slammed his hands down on the massive boardroom table as he stood up, the backs of his knees shoving the leather chair backward hard enough that it scurried three feet across the carpet, finally coming to rest against the cherry trim on the wall. "You mean to tell me that Rob is in on this, too?!" he yelled, after seeing the Wet Beaver Creations logo. "Well of course he is dummy," Grayson barked, "we're all sick and tired of contributing to your proj..." and once again Cockerill had to interject to keep these two hot-heads from coming to one of their deck-measuring contests.
"Terry, just cool it, let's not make this more than it needs to be! What we're here to discuss today is something that we feel could be the next step, not only for NGM, but for our corporations, too. I know for a fact that Dirty Ankle Designs (DAD) is ready to bring more courses to market after the strong showing of The Kraken in a recent contest, and I will be taking Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (WTF) Designs to the next level as well, and with Rob's support of our efforts from a marketing standpoint, we just feel it's time to restructure into a more balanced..."
"Balance shmalance -- what we want is an equal share of the profits, plain and simple," Terry announced. "You obviously can't give my precious goat new life, so it's time to up the ante on our partnership. We're here today to resign from NGM, which will cripple your design business significantly if you let us walk away." "Or limp, in your case," Nesbit grumbled sarcastically.
"Our proposal is simple," Curtis said. "All we're asking for is a partnership, we still want to be here and remain involved with NGM, but we want to branch out as well. Think of the things we could do, not only individually, but if we collaborate on course designs as well! We've come today to offer you an equal share in the Dirty Ankle Mafia syndicate -- and yes, Rob is with us, so let's take this thing to the next level. What do you say?" Curtis finished.
"You's either with us, or without us now. We can take your goat-ranch pictures right off this brochure no problem if y..." Nesbit couldn't wait to shut him up, so he interrupted again. "Fine, I'm in! I don't know what you're so cranky about you grimy hillbilly. All you had to do was ask. This was never about me for my own sake, I was happy to have the help out in the field, but if you weren't happy, all you had to do was say so. Show a little class, would you? I'd be thrilled to see what this group could come up with in 2019, but you'll have to drop the attitude for this to work. You come in here like a gunslinger, but it's not like you're the designer of El Pistolero or something!"
And with that, Curtis and Terry stood up to be eye-to-eye with the already standing former CEO and extended their hands. Nesbit reached first for Curtis, applying a gentlemanly shake and looking him in the eye with that affirming glare they'd become accustomed to needing from time to time -- the look that says, "Thanks for keeping this crazy John Wayne wannabe in check." As he turned to Terry, though, Nesbit couldn't help but remember the slimy Cheeto fingers from a few minutes ago, and casually reached beyond Terry's hand to give him a manly slap on the shoulder, careful not to touch the arm hair creeping out from beyond the edges of his sleeveless shirt.
As they turned to walk out the door, Nesbit couldn't help but get the last word in. "Guys, I'm all-in on the Mafia, no hard feelings. But just remember, if you want an empire like this," he said as he motioned with his arm around the extravagant boardroom and pointed out the 27th floor window, "you'll need to design something that HB covets, not just some large decks with no seating."
------------
COMING SOON!