Golf on television. What’s up with that? Do you know anyone who plays golf?
Here it is, Sunday afternoon, and I have finished my chores, emptied the garbage, cleaned the sink, brushed-out the crapper, and now, when I’m ready to sit down on the couch, there it is: another dumb golf game.
I am not knocking golf. Sure, golf is a fine sport for middle-aged men who like knocking their balls around on grass, but if anyone wants to watch golf, all anyone has to do is go to a golf course and watch people play, like, golf. Get it?
Golf is way too slow for television, but for as long as this dude has lived, all I get is the old televised golf game from name your country club here. Sure, Phil Nickolson is a fine golfer. I like his television commercial where he’s teaching children to, well, golf. I cannot remember what the golfer is advertising but it certainly is not needed in this place.
Thank you, Jesus, for providing us television viewers other options, even if all the other options on Sundays are pretty weird. I do like Turner Classic movies, especially the old black-and-white A-grade turkeys from the ‘forties and sometimes even the ‘thirties. Old movies are much more cognizant and conscious than the utter crap currently being fed to moviegoers here in Atlanta.
Atlanta does have luxury theaters that deign to project indie films, but who wants to go all the way into inner Atlanta for a luxury movie? I’d rather choose Netflix. At least Netflix has a lot of good shows on offer, even if the subscription rate does cost a little bit.
I don’t mind cost for televised or recorded movies, but what about golf? Whatever in the world is golf? Is it a sport? Or is it a creature comfort for executives of the advertising companies on networks? Do those psychopathic narcissists have a clue that most people find televised golf about as interesting as watching a fly hanging upside-down on the ceiling?
Serious. I’m serious, buddies.
And the money those golf pros take from smacking a little, dimpled ball around the green, and their expertise in avoiding the sand traps, well, how ridiculous is that? I’ll never forget when Tiger Woods was caught with his so-called hands in his pants, committing adultery because his pretty Scandinavian wife simply was not enough. What was on with Tiger Woods? Not that women from the north countries are as passionate as a young buck from Indonesia, but seriously. Why do that to a nice, lovely woman?
I used to play miniature golf as a kid. All us kids liked that. Keeping the little miniature golf balls inside the Astroturf courses did take some skill, especially when we had to contend with the trickery of the huge windmill many miniature golf courses provide—as if knocking a golf ball through the base of a windmill is some kind of accomplishment. Is it? Maybe it is.
I remember playing miniature golf with my girlfriend from our church group in high school. I kept teasing her: Wanna play golf, Nancy? Sure. She may have been pretending she didn’t know what I was talking about, but I was an early bloomer, and Nancy? Most beautiful, soft and almost downy little “moon puppies” I have ever seen. Yes, I am talking breasts. You know, tits. Headlights. Honkers. What. Ever.
I sure did love Nancy. Nancy was my first girl. But you know how kids are: Once you’re going steady, mainly because at fifteen you think you are supposed to go steady, suddenly you realize that it is much more advantage to sample than it is to choose. Choosing is for losing—at least at fifteen. Know what I mean?
In seventh grade, a girl who sat in front of me in social studies asked to wear my skull ring. Honest. I was way too dumb at thirteen to know that Debra was now my steady girl, skull ring paraded around the junior high hallways like a freaking Oscar.
My friends were impressed. I was clueless. I was more interested in listening to The Stone Temple Pilots. Now I have advanced to pure and utter silence. No music here. I am an accountant. I need silence in order to concentrate. Even if it is the weekend, I like quiet. Not that it is too peaceful in reality, but then, when I turn on the idiot box—I get it.
Shoot, even croquet is better than that rap. Yeah. Let’s go whack a tiny white ball with a big steel stick with a wooden head on it. See what I mean? That is meaningless, dude.
Here’s how it looks from my den: Big CEOs are on the golf course using the knock-offs as divination. That’s right. Arnold Palmer says something about a deal. Tony Jacklin swats the white ball, which of course represents either the company’s non-professional support staff or perhaps communism. Who knows? And then, well, hole in one! Deal’s on!
Sweet deals are made of balls. But why not black golf balls? Why not yellow ones? With smiley faces on them?
Knocking a red ball clean across the sixteenth hole would be one clean sweep.
But professional golfers are content with their white balls. I do tend to laugh on Sunday afternoons when the ladies start knocking white balls all over the place. Ha! The sexual connotations of women using steel rods to knock balls into the air.
Ever the joker, am I not?
As Boy Scouts, a buddy and I escaped from the campgrounds in the woods and discovered a golf course. A ball rolled right up to my feet. You know what? I threw that sucker back simply to see the big pro have a fit on a bright green field.
Then I ran to watch TV.