By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
The winners? A Charo wannabe outfitted in a gold Bebe shirt and matching shiny spandex pants stretched tighter than your budget, and a man wearing—swear—an orange T-shirt, blue athletic shorts, beach sandals and a snappy gray sports coat.
Read between the lines and see through the sex and it's apparent all this bad is helping the greater good. One booth—operated by very ambitious Southwest Airlines flight attendants—sells beer to help an autism fund. And everywhere you look there are volunteers in red pants, a warm 'n' fuzzy reminder that most of the proceeds will be funneled to the Salesmanship Club, a beneficiary sponsoring camps and centers for at-risk youth experiencing behavioral problems.
Cuban will go bankrupt before I buy that bitch another drink.
As night falls, the volume escalates. A local band called Joker's Deck appropriately belts out its first tune: "Runnin' With the Devil." Over the week, the stage will host Emerald City, Professor D, Jack Ingram and hundreds of thousands who thoroughly enjoyed the Byron Nelson Classic without seeing a single shot.
Live music, green grass, abundant alcohol and horny men. What we got here is Woodystock.
Gross! He was like totally staring at your chest. Just staring!
Was he cute?
As if we needed a reminder of the titillating theme, flying overhead the entire day was an airplane dragging an advertising banner for, wouldn't you know it, The Men's Club.
Sorry, Lord Byron, but the most important club at your tournament rests not in a bag, but pulsates under a tent.
Turns out golf needs The Pavilion more than The Pavilion needs golf.
You got any coupons left? I know she'll totally do it!