Speaking in tongues: Golf and the holidays

I'm not sure anyone today understands the biblical term, "speaking in tongues."  What I believe is that it occurred, and when it happened someone understood.

Not that Sim Sala Bim gibberish that Robert Tilton and Benny Hinn babble that no one understands (although it sounds to me like "show me the money".)

I apparently speak in tongues.  Meaning, I use words I don't know but other people clearly understand.  It happens when playing golf and during the holidays.

Let's say, I've hit a great drive and I have less than 100 yards to the pin.  I pull out a sand wedge and promptly skull it over the green and out of bounds.  I'll typically say then what I say when the GFI circuit powering all of the outdoor lights has blown for the 17th time during the inevitable December rains.  And, the GFI reset is in an outlet in the middle of the garage ceiling.  A garage full of wrapping paper, Amazon boxes to be recycled, a car and furniture that had to be moved for our "minimalist" decorations.  That's when I say something that sounds a lot like, "Cupid mastered."

Imagine it's a chilly, windy day.  I've hit another magnificent drive with the wind on a 525 yard par five.  I've but a four iron to the middle of the green.  Birdie opportunity, eagle possibility.  I shank the four iron two fairways over.  With hands still vibrating (remember, Ben Hogan said "90% of a golf club is the shaft"), I'll typically say then what I say when decorating the tree and I'm putting the angel on top whilst standing on a pitiful two-step ladder and I start leaning too far and I have to grab whatever seems stable to prevent a full face-plant.  That's when I say something like "My mother was a trucker."  (She wasn't, by the way.  She was secretary to the superintendent of Fulton County Schools and a highly respected woman with purple hair well known in East Point, Georgia.)

My most severe golf language issue occurs on the 18th green.  Usually playing my nemesis, Dr. James X. Noble (the only surgeon in the world to perform the rear-entry double lobotomy, a story that has landed us a table without a reservation at many a fine restaurant).  Our bet stands at +1/0/-1.  I have a three foot putt uphill.  He has a 17 foot double breaker over mounds the size of Cass Elliot.  He holes his center cup.  I yank mine 6 inches left and two feet past.  Then, I slap the next one that lips out.  I'll typically say then what I say when I get up to whizz at 4:32 am the day after Christmas and step on a Hot Wheels firetruck left strategically by one of the 97 grandchildren.  That's when I say something that sounds like "Sit on the BENCH".

We had dinner on New Year's Eve with two married couples that are dear old friends.  One of the guys is the kindest, gentlest, most Godly men I've ever met.  We started discussing things that we've learned about our spouses.  He said he never could have imagined the pain and agony of decorating for Christmas.  "The two worst days of the year are when we take them down from the attic and the day we put them up."

I'm pretty sure he has an outbreak of glossolalia on those days as well.