Eighteen Holes Of Golf

Harry, a golf enthusiast if ever there was one, arrived home from the club to an irate, ranting wife.

"I'm leaving you, Harry," his wife announced bitterly. "You promised me faithfully that you'd be back before noon and here it is almost nine P.M. It just can't take that long to play eighteen holes of golf."

"Now, wait," said Harry. "Let me explain. I know what I promised you, but I have a very good reason for being late. I got up at the crack of dawn, as you know, and picked up Fred at six A.M. But on the way to the course we had a flat tire and when I changed it I discovered that the spare was flat, too. So I had to walk three miles to a gas station to get the tire fixed and then roll it all the way back and put it on the car. 

After that, we got back into the car, drove a quarter of a mile and ran out of gas. I had to trudge all the way back to the gas station and back to the car again. Finally we got to the course and started to play. Everything was fine for the first two holes and then, on the third tee, Fred had a stroke. I ran back to the clubhouse but couldn't find a doctor. And, by the time I got back to Fred, he was dead. So, for the next sixteen holes, it was hit the ball and drag Fred, hit the ball and drag Fred......."