I don’t play golf. I don’t even really like it that much. I’ll watch a tournament now and then, if it’s important. Mostly so I have something to talk about with the ever-growing population of golf lovers. But I don’t hate golf. I would never utter those words. Because, quite honestly, golf frightens me.
Playing golf is like getting married to crack. Not only is it a huge commitment, it’s terribly addictive. Start playing golf and soon your money gets tied up in equipment and subscriptions and clothes and greens fees. In fact, I read somewhere that your first set of clubs should cost about two to three months salary. Soon it’s all golf. Putting on some pounds? Work it off by putting your clubs in the cart. No need for a fulfilling career. Golf. Need to feel creative? Nope. Golf. Family? Sure, if they like golf. It sucks your life away. Fore! Gone!
Hell, I think I’d almost rather be addicted to crack than play golf. It’s probably cheaper in the long run. You only need one piece of equipment and you make that with a bendy straw and some tin foil (so I hear). And at least when you’re high on crack, you’re always a winner. You can eat, sleep, and breathe golf and still lose. A lot. Advantage: crackhead.
How many golf magazines are there? I don’t know, ten? Let’s say ten. Ten, great. How many crack magazines are there? Zero. No doubt, zero. See? Even crack addicts take some time away from crack. Golfers need to be golfing even on the can. That’s an illness. And don’t give me crap about illiteracy. Most golfers can read. They’re not just using the magazines as toilet paper.
So that’s why I’ll never pick up a driver. I’m scared of the commitment. I’m young. I’ve got most of my life ahead of me. If I get hooked on golf now, where will I end up? One swing and the next thing you know I’ll wake up on the sixth hole of the Bethpage Black Course sucking dick for Titleists.