Because I Suck at Golf

I’m a golfer, a linksman, a slicer, shanker, duffer. I’m a threat on the teebox to anyone within 100 yards of me. I may turn my entire body during my backswing and fire one directly at the clubhouse patio, knocking the matire’d unconscious. I may defy the laws of physics and hit the ball backwards directly at your stupid fat head. Why? Because I suck at golf.

Like a crocodile wrestling a crocodile wrestler, I don’t play by anybody’s rules, and I’m extremely pissed off always. I force everyone around me to stand at attention whenever I have a club in my hand. I don’t check to see where your ball landed, I don’t tip the cart girl, and I don’t apologize when I buzz my approach shot within an inch of your face.

Fore! (just kidding, I never yell fore).

Proper golf etiquette means nothing to me. I talk while you’re putting, hit into the foursome ahead of us, and drive the golf cart onto the green and do donuts around the pin. Sometimes I drive off the course and onto the highway, cutting off an 18-wheeler so it swerves and spills gasoline onto the 17th fairway. Then I throw a match and set the entire course ablaze. Try seeing the pin over a 5-alarm fire, idiot. 

My golf swing looks like a goose in its final death throes. I know because I usually attack geese with my 5-iron after duffing one ten yards. Then I’ll chase down your flop shot like I’m Derek Jeter tracking a pop-fly in foul territory. When I catch it I’ll hail mary it into the woods. So much for getting on the green in regulation.

No, I don’t have an extra ball I can give you. 

When you’re putting, I’ll walk across your line. When it’s late afternoon, I’ll make sure my shadow lingers over you. When you’re not looking, I’ll steal your phone and text your girlfriend pictures of a venereal disease and tell her she should get tested. Then I’ll loosen the cart straps on your golf bag so that it falls off when we pull away. When you say go back, I’ll reverse over your bag and give you a nut tap.

Oh look, your girlfriend’s calling.

I take 8 breakfast balls on the front 9, 10 lunch balls on the back 9, and a mulligan whenever I damn well please. Oh, is the group behind us getting upset? I’ll fire a warning shot with the handgun I keep in my bag. When the cops come to arrest me I’ll attack them with my sand wedge until they have no choice but to shoot me down. I’ve been killed 21 times. Each time the devil sends me back to the purgatory that is this golf course. Fuck you, devil. 

When I see someone in their backswing, I scream bloody murder. When I see someone being murdered, I stay perfectly silent. I also stay silent when you ask what I shot on the last hole. If you hit a bad shot, I’ll applaud sarcastically. Then I’ll apologize and give you a beer. The beer is laced with acid. I made it myself and it’s extremely fast-acting. Let’s see who shoots better now.

I didn’t choose to be a golfer. Golfing chose me. There’s nothing quite like being out in nature, sun shining, birds chirping, and me, snapping your clubs in half against a tree while you try to explain to your girlfriend that you’ve always been faithful. By the way, that’s not your girlfriend you’re talking to, it’s the ball washer. You’re high as fuck right now. 

I wish I could help but the fire is closing in fast and the foursome behind us is getting angsty. If the police come looking just tell them I had to pick up this hole. Mark me down for a bogey.

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