Chris Knox, Pseudo-Founder

I remember thinking that was kinda nice of Chris to take my clubs over near the first tee for me. now as I pour this cold water over my hands and arms to lessen the excrutiating pain of countless fire ant bites - I wonder - surely it was accidental . . . wasn't it? I'm startled by Duncan, your up Stenholm - there he is over there on the putting green -

could the rattlesnake from yesterday have been . . .
Chris W. Stenholm, Founder

1. As the Transgressional approaches, one must remain calm, cool and collected (the "3Cs). I have noticed that certain participants are defeated before they even strike their first shot. They seem as though they have continuously anguished over their tournament history; so many attempts, so many dismal failures. As the first tee time approaches each year, this participant often appears restless and impatient for activities to commence. Consequently, I believe said participant is doomed to failure; we all know history repeats itself. I say to this participant, remember the 3Cs, and for god's sake, do not approach that first tee as though you have ants in your pants.

2. Some years ago, I found myself studying the insect population of my yard. Almost immediately, I became fascinated by a family of Colonial hymenopterous insects with complex social organization and various castes performing special duties. As I studied their transgressions to and fro across my yard in obedient labor for their queen, I was dumbfounded by the parallelism. The queen and her servant-workers. The Founders and their hand-picked players. That moment of enlightenment stung me to the obvious realization that we Founders need look no further for the official insect mascot of the Transgressional. If you remain mystified, I unveil the noble fire ant.

3. Did you know that the strategic placement of the queen fire ant on the collar of your opponent will cause such opponent to be overrun by her agitated and angry workers, thereby causing your opponent to truthfully scream out, "I've got ants in my pants!"

4. E. C. Knox was recently spotted on the range at Colonial. Shortly thereafter, he was escorted off the premises by security screaming "Stenholm!!" over and over again.

5. I anticipate introducing my most recent invitee, Daniel Simons (my other brother-in-law), at this year's tournament. Please, no one tell him that first year rookies don't have to caddy.

Burt Copeland, Transgressionalite

"Hum? Knox. Hum? I know I've heard that name before, but where? Isn't that the name of the mythical Nordic god praised for his ability to hurl stones great distances into the deepest part of the nearest body of water? Or perhaps the polynesian ritual "Una Kuna Knoxa" that local tribesmen perform before each year's great hunt.

Legend has it that the ritual begins with the dance of joy, characterized by loud whooping and boasting of new hunting skills learned. This is followed by tales of recent conquests in which the hunter sustained injury and now requires three additional spears to make this year's hunt "fair". The celebration can produce a euphoric sensation for some hunters in which they, unfortunately, throw all their spears early in the contest.

As reality crashes back in, the now sad and dejected tribesman moans loudly about being "out of the hunt". The ritual is said to end with the hunter consuming as much Bug Juice as possible and swinging his arms in a wild, crazy manner each time the wench in the juice wagon passes within hooting distance.

I am convinced that an acestrial linkage may exist between some of the participants and the "Knox" related histories described above. I therefore respectfully request that the esteemed founding fathers closely examine the actions of this year's participants to identify and report on any potential Knoxians who may be present."

Respectfully, Burt
Joe Rhone, Founder

There was a crooked man
who wore a crooked smile,
he called himself a founder
and could hit it a country mile.

But along came some bashers
aspiring for acclaim,
upset his composure
and #*@!'ed up his game.

He got himself together
and prepared a mighty game
against the founder "wanna-be's"
who are insignificant in name

So be it said the founder,
forget the previous year!
The tournament shall return to greatness,
last year's treachery will disappear.

Jett Rominger, Transgressionalite

There is a golfer named Knox, who sometimes goes by Chris,
At whose name the Golf Gods begin to hiss,
Because to Chris, the Transgressional is no laughing matter,
His hopes and dreams they will once again shatter.
It's been one long year since his last failed chance,
So Chris begins his ancient Transgressional dance.
He collects every swing tip and clue from magazines and books,
And to the LPGA he often looks.
Armed with his Little Red Book, the latest cure and the everpresent excuse,
Off he heads to San Antonio to unwittingly suffer the Gods' abuse.
With every duck hook, three putt, shank and slice,
Every part of his game the Golf Gods quickly dice.
When at last the prized trophy is awarded,
Chris whimpers as another futile attempt is thwarted.
As Chris limps towards home, he mumbles "...mabey next year,"
and "I don't have any cash...can you buy me a beer?"
Duncan Kennedy, Founder

The Shanking

"You betcha!", quipped the craggedly old greens-keeper Jett, "You can play all the golf you want till the snow come, then play at your own risk!" Joe, Chris and Duncan watched the old greens-keeper Jett wander back to his shed as Little E.C. played in the sand trap. "Whatcha drawin' there?" Joe asked as the three remarkable founders peered over Little E.C.'s shoulder. "I dun drawed the word NITRAM", replied Little E.C. "Git on outta that trap and go clean my clubs!" requested four-time-champion Chris, and the founders followed the scampering Little E.C. back toward the clubhouse.

Outside the clubhouse, Little E.C. entered the caddy shack and came upon Ol' Burt, the former assistant driving range instructor. "Boy you shank more than anyone I've ever come across." Little E.C. looked up at the towering Ol' Burt and sputtered "NITRAM". Ol' Burt winked and replied, "Little E.C., if you find yourself in a heap o' trouble this winter, you just shank as hard as you can and I'll come runnin". Little E.C. looked up at Ol' Burt and cracked up. Ol' Burt responded,"OK, psycho boy, just remember to stay out of the women's locker room, whatever you do, don't go in there". After advising Little E.C., Ol' Burt put his golf bag in the back of his snow mobile and drove away from the caddy shack for the last time.

Little E.C. decided it was time to go into the clubhouse and find the key to the women's locker room. On the way, he wandered through the 19th hole. "Scamper behind the bar and get me another beer!", asked founder Kennedy. Five time champion Joe was getting frustrated. "Don't you have anything to say for yerself Little E.C.?" Little E.C. timidly looked up at the imposing presence of the impressive table of founders and squeaked "NITRAM". Little E.C., holding back tears, ran from the room.

Halfway down the hallway, Little E.C. ran into Mean Ol' Cal. Mean Ol' Cal was known for a lotta things, mostly mean. "You lookin' fer this?" Mean Ol' Cal had the key to the women's locker room danglin' from his fingers. The sight of Mean Ol' Cal made Little E.C. practically wet his pants; he ran up to Mean Ol' Cal, scratched his face, snatched the key and ran off toward the women's locker room yelling "NITRAM!, NITRAM!".

Rounding the corner, Little E.C. tripped over a mop bucket and fell to the freshly mopped floor sliding down the hall and into the shoes of Good Ol' Dave, the assistant janitor. "Hole' on ther' lil' one", laughed Good Ol' Dave, "yer slide'n like a putt offa green at the Masser's". Little E.C. bit Good Ol' Dave on the ankle and ran off down the hall yelling "NITRAM!, NITRAM!".

Having finally made his way to the women's locker room door, Little E.C. nervously rattled the key into the lock. "Click" (went the latch), "Squeeek" (went the door). Little E.C. stepped inside the darkened room and fumbled for the light switch. "NITRAM, NITRAM", the words were pounding in his little brain. Finally he found the switch. "Flip" - the incandescent lighting filled the room. Mirrors were everywhere. A squeaking noise was coming from behind a row of lockers. Undaunted, Little E.C. bravely stepped toward the sound.

As Little E.C. peeked around the edge of the lockers he saw a curious sight. It was the ghost of David G. The ghost of David G. was standing on the vanity wearing pantyhose and a halter-top. Brandishing a red lip stick, with a hideous creepy smile on his face, the ghost of David G. was neatly printing the word "NITRAM" over and over on the mirror. Sickened by the image before him, Little E.C. slowly turned around and was about to flee when he saw it. In the opposite mirror the red printed words became clear to him. "MARTIN!". NITRAM was MARTIN! With a terrifying scream, Little E.C. threw a towel at the ghost and ran out of the locker room.

Running down the hall toward the 19th hole, Little E.C. heard the sound of golf spikes clumping behind him. Looking back over his shoulders he saw the big fat figure of Robert Martin chasing after him wielding a putter. With the heavy spike steps gaining on him, Little E.C. raced toward the tavern entrance. "Please save me Founders, save me Founders", desperate Little E.C. yelled.

Bursting through the door, Little E.C. saw a vacant room with a big screen TV in the corner broadcasting the Memorial golf tournament. "This is the end of my minute existence", he thought to himself as he cowered behind a leather arm chair waiting for the awful sunflower seed spittin' Robert Martin to crash through the door and pound him to death with his otherwise useless putter.

As big fat stupid Robert Martin plopped through the door, the three heroic Founders pounced from the rafters overhead and crushed him to death, leaving impressions from various brands of soft-spikes. "That sure was fun", the Founders remarked to themselves, "let's consider this place for next year's Transgressional!" With the incredibly grateful Little E.C. offering his thanks, the Founders sent him back to the caddy shack to clean their bloody golf shoes.

The End

Robert Martin, Transgressionalite

current excuse(s): "I don't need to play well, I play with Stenholm every week. How else could I afford four kids? He is a belt – very reliable! He 'buckles' under pressure every week"

It should be noted that all of the winners of this tournament are "so called" self appointed founders with the exception of two non-founders who won it as rookies. Fairness cannot be associated, in any form, with the tradition set by the founders for this "Transgressional Invitational" tournament.

My goal is to improve the tradition that the founders have set and win this tournament and lift the "black cloud" that lingers along associated with fairness in the true spirit of competition.

So be it!

Concerned invitee, outstanding competitor, non-founder, known founder basher, and future winner of this tournament,

Robert R. Martin

Fred Kennedy, Transgressionalite

reasons for poor play:

Both 1990 and 1996 appearances would have resulted in clear victories barring extenuating circumstances:

1990: Blatant intimidation tactics employed by Founders – to all bystanders innocently, yet futilely praying for a bid to compete in future Transgressionals – beware.

1996: Chris Knox's onerous behavior at George's eating establishment in Waco led a witch doctor, disguised in street clothes, to put a powerful hex on the "Table of Knowledge," where Chris, Fred and Jett R. were dining unsuspectingly. Thanks to Chris, Fred and Jett never had a chance. (Chris never had a chance anyway)


"You may be the greatest sky diver in the world; but if your parachute doesn't open, then you ain't nothin'."

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