Long ago. Just half-past yesterday out in some rocky sheep pasture in the north of Scotland some lads got tired of bashing each others heads with thick-ended root-clubs and found some petrified ram-turds and began hitting them at the gang on the other pasture – a fair ways away. Then some wag said: “betcha I can hit my turd further than you,” and he was answered: “that’s because you flush! Let’s aim at yon scraggly tree instead.”
So stead was in.
And thus with major and minor alterations the game of Flog got borned. But the printer on the job for making the cardscore was sore and over hung that printing morn and reversed the letters, thus naming the game “Golf.”
Why golf, you say.
Because “Shit” already was taken.