Taken to the cleaners

I told my wife I was going to pick up the dry cleaning yesterday. Stopped at the club on the way (if a detour of seven miles can be considered on the way) and thought I'd hit a small bucket. The small bucket turned into a large one and before I was done three of my buddies on the range roped me into a game. Maybe nine, I thought. The dry cleaning can wait. We decided to play a $5 Nassau to make things interesting, and by the time we were making the turn, my team had lost the front and a press, meaning we were down $10 a man. This was no time to quit. The dry cleaning can wait. Things were looking up on the back till I shanked one into a plate glass window of a home along the 12th hole. I was able to calm down the owner with the assurance that I'd pay for the damage, which was clearly going to cost me. That, of course, threw my game off, and again we lost the back and a press, resulting in a $25 payoff at the 19th hole where I needed a few consolation beers. When I walked in the door 6 hours later, my wife asked me where the dry cleaning was. I told her a little green lie and said it wasn't ready yet. She smelled beer on my breath and saw my golf glove sticking out of my back pocket. No nooky tonight. As we were having a discussion about where I'd been and where my wife thought I should go, the owner of the home whose window I destroyed called with an estimate on the damage. My wife picked up the phone. This wasn't good. I made for the door. "Where do you think you're going?" she yelled. "I think the dry cleaning is ready," I yelled back and made my escape.