I love golf. There. I’ve said it. There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in that (Ed.—Um…except that this blog is supposed to be about hockey. Auth.—Shut up. It’s my blog and it will be about any damn thing I want it to be about. Besides, it’s not like I’m taking a chance on offending my vast audience. It’s GOLF. And I have no audience).
I love everything about it. The etiquette, the snappy clothes (Plus-Fours do attract the ladies), the fact that you can still call it “exercise” while buying your fourth can of Blue from the hottie on the beverage cart. I love that players call fouls on themselves, which, it can be said, is a rather…er…rare…occurrence in any other sport (Barry Bonds to Bud Selig: “Yeah, I’m giving up all of my home runs because I’m a cheat, and an asshole and a disgrace to the game. Now I'm off to a Tibetan monastary.") I love to watch it, and I love to play it, even when it breaks my heart, as it inevitably must.
Which brings us naturally to…The Masters. By far, The Masters is my favourite major, and not just because you can repeatedly use the word “Hootie” in polite conversation. I have to admit, I’m a sucker for all that grand tradition (well, the Azaleas-Amen Corner-Eisenhower Pine kind of tradition, not the other Old Rich White Guys Buying Slaves To Run The Clubhouse kind). Why, I’ll bet if you walked 50 feet in any direction into the woods behind the 12th green, you’d see a plaque that says “Bobby Jones Peed Here”. Seriously. I bet you would.
I love the fact that Hootie (see? Try it. It’s fun!) held his ground against Martha Burk and told her to go play in her own sandbox, this one was boys only! And I especially loved it when Hootie (WHEEE!!) took his golf ball and went home after advertisers rebuked him for telling Martha to get bent. Don’t like it? We’re now commercial free! Huzzah!
So I would encourage everyone to relax and raise a beverage to Hootie this weekend and take in at least a few minutes of the serene glory that is Augusta National “televised for 54 out of every 60 minutes”. And please be rest assured that the urge you’ll have to jam that tinkling piano up Jim Nantz’s rectum just to shut that saccharine filled hole in his face will eventually go away. Promise.
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