Fore-ocious. Screw this. I’ll see you on the green.
Baseball is stupid. Let’s watch golf.
I didn’t mean that.
Yes I did.
No I didn’t.
Golf carts are fun. Do they come in pink? I’m great at driving. Well. Um. Sort of. Except for that one week, my driving record is pretty pristine. But seriously, what are the odds of me getting into three crashes in a week in both a car AND a golf cart? I think I’m pretty safe. And I wouldn’t be driving the golf cart on the interstate, so…
Can’t you pay people to drive the golf carts for you?
Maybe we can invest in pastel collared shirts and hats. I like hats. Oh, And those club covers that have cartoon characters on them? I love cartoon characters. I’ll take Eeyore. And you, you can have Tigger. Throw in my snazzy hot pink socks and we’ll be the best pair that ever shouted “FORE.” I have this lip gloss that matches my polo shirt. Throw in a cute fishtail braid and snazzy gloves, and I could be a golf calendar girl. I’d prefer February.
We can say cool golf terms like “hook” and “slice” and “par” and by that point, we’ll be familiar enough with wikipedia to even know what those things mean.
Do you know how to play golf? I have the internet. I’ll figure it out. It can’t be THAT hard. Old people do it all the time. And old people (on occasion) can’t figure out simple things like Prince and yellow traffic lines and automatic doors. Oh! And escalators. They have a lot of trouble with those here in North Carolina.
I’m great at putt-putt. But only the kind with the giant animals. Like those big plaster giraffes. I have no interest in playing mini-golf in a mini-city. With mini Eiffel towers and mini-windmills. Mini-windmills scare me, see, because then I have these nightmares about mini-people. Like the kind I’m (just sort of kidding, but a little serious) convinced live in the crawl space near my ceiling. There’s this little door, see, too high for me to reach, and it has a little handle. And I dream people come out of it while I’m sleeping and play with things. Like “The Borrowers.” The old one. Not the new one. Even though John Goodman scares me too, but for different reasons.
But if we played golf, we could spend time in the sunshine with caddies to carry things for us and golf carts to accelerate. Oh, and clubhouses with mimosas. And we would never have to watch ESPN or Kyle Weilland ever, ever, ever again.
What happy days we would have, you and I. We could stroll down the lane or the green or the sand trap or whatever you call it and whistle delightful songs like “You are my sunshine” (because it would be sunny) and “Zippideedoodah” (doesn’t that just sound like a song you sing in a golf hat?). We’d use lots of sunscreen (the cocoa butter, nifty smelling kind) and talk about our stock portfolios. Oh! Oh! Oh! We’d HAVE stock portfolios. And bonds and securities and other things that people who play golf have. And we’d lunch (we’d use the word “lunch” as a verb) at the club. With mimosas!
Oh. What if it rained? That wouldn’t do. Then we’d have to go in the clubhouse and baseball would be on tv and then Kyle Weilland would pitch and EVERYTHING WOULD BE RUINED.
There is no cure for this.
I work ALLLLLLL day. Get back at midnight and see a score of 9-2??????
That’s under the par (hah, I’m so punny) of my tolerance level. And seriously. My grandfather owned a driving range. So maybe golf is genetic or something? And I know how to play because it’s hardwired into my cells?
But really, 9-2?
What happened, guys? What happened?
WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME, CURT YOUNG??????? Remember what happened LAST TIME you let Kyle pitch?
Can’t sleep? This post by Sully might cheer you up.