Dear Penthouse,

I never thought it would happen to me. And, so far, I’ve been right.

Dear Chums,

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the Insta-Princess’s family reunion? The one from this past July?

No?

Well, let me start off by saying that I don’t play golf. I’ve been on a golf course maybe twice in my life, but I can’t say what I did on the course even remotely resembled “playing golf”. I’d probably have come much closer to success either time by bringing a pool cue and playing billiards with a Titleist. (I did, however, throw a golf club down the fairway just so I could live a cliché.) The Insta-Princess accuses me of being old, grumpy and white, but if golf were the clear indicator of all three, you couldn’t tell by me.

Now, we had just finished up with my family’s reunion the week before, so the Insta-Princess and I weren’t looking forward to yet another one. Plus, it was during my family reunion that we discovered Wiggy was gonna burst on the scene, so you can imagine that we wanted some time off to absorb the ramifications of this new eighteen year tax deduction. Still, despite our protests that one reunion a year was enough for us, my mother-in-law insisted, and had in fact paid for our tickets in a bid to get us to make an appearance. Half our battle was won: we attended the Friday evening get-together and went on the lam for the next day’s gathering.

Actually, the Friday meeting was pretty nice. Slightly cramped, sure, but everyone was kind, snacks and drinks were provided, and I got to meet a lot of people I’ll never remember, and see numerous photos that were excellent, but that I’ve already forgotten. Thus is the way of reunions.

What I didn’t care for was the planned activity for the evening. That is, someone evil devised a “find this kind of person” game where you went around with a sheet in hand and had to match a random person with one of the attributes listed on the sheet. For example, the sheet provided such characteristics as “grew up on a farm” or “likes to fish”—and for both, separately, you’d have to find a person in the room who either grew up on a farm or liked to fish. Simple, eh?

There were numerous entries that described me in some way. I like to fish, you know? And, heck, I like to bowl, read a lot, collect wine, and ride a motorcycle. But, did I get asked any of those questions?

Not a chance.

My being the only white guy in the room, however, afforded nearly half the answer-seekers the opportunity to come up to me and say, “Now, I know you play golf.” There was no question or doubt; there was just this indubitable insistence that I, the palest dude in the room, hit the links. And by the sixth or seventh time this happened, the Insta-Princess and I were nearly in tears trying to hold back the laughter.

Good god. I look like an old, grumpy white guy who likes to play golf. I just can’t win.

Le sigh.