A fellow has been at the same workplace for over 40 years and is constantly being asked by his co-workers to play in the intramural company league they have every week. "Not until I retire," he would always say.

Well, his final day on the job arrives, and at his farewell retirement dinner, instead of a gold watch, he is presented with a $2000 set of the best custom made golf clubs on the planet. To complete the deal, he goes out and buys all the appropriate apparel: plaid knickers, knee-high socks, tassled 2-tone shoes, stripped wool sweater, golf tam with pom-poms, the whole magilla.

So, he goes out, addresses the ball ("Hello, ball," just like God in my last joke) and proceeds to slice the ball right into the woods. He finds the ball, and, lo and behold, deems it still playable. He takes another swipe at it, but the ball ricochets off a tree, hits him dead in the skull and kills him instantly.

Up at the Pearly Gates, St. Peter says, "Oh, I see you're a golfer." "Yes, I am," the man replies. "Are you any good?" St. Pete asks. "Well, I got here in two, didn't I?"