I get the shakes just thinking about it. I'm going to need medication. Physical restraints. A straitjacket and a drool cup.
My golf buddies look at me like I'm 51 cards shy of a full deck. I used to be the king of clubs. Now I'm the goddamn joker. And I don't dare mention it in front of their wives or I'll never hear the end of it. Because neither will they. Their wives will hound them until they finally cry uncle and join me in my monastic pursuit of the bogey-free existence. And that's when I'll either need to hire a bodyguard or jack up my insurance.
Quitting golf for a year is not going to make me a lot of friends. Whose lame ass idea was this, anyway? My wife likes to claim it was hers, and I'm all to happy to give her credit.
I wonder if she realizes I'm going to be around the house a lot more. In her hair like Dippity-do. She may live to regret this.
And odds are she will not be alone.
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1 comment:
Only one (well more than one) thing to do. Play so much that you get totally sick of it, practice until your arms fall off, walk the course until you need a medicated cream for that friction rash in your crotch and on the last day, hit every ball you own into the river. Every ball (wait, wait - give the new ones to me - I promise every time I hit one I'll observe a moment of silence in solidarity with your suffering). I'll even remove my golf cap.
You might even want to cut the grips off the clubs. When you start playing again the ritual of buying new balls and getting your clubs regripped will be like some serious foreplay.
Finally - you are nuts, you recognize that don't you?
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