Golf is a gentleman's game. You take a
caddy with you, walk over the greens and putt to your heart's content
while simultaneously making million dollar deals with your business
rival and close personal enemy. I don't know if I suck at golf and
I'm not rich enough to find out. I do know, however, that miniature
golf is to golf what an escape shuttle is to the Starship Enterprise.
Similar, but really not. Sometimes, the bigger the better. Am I right,
ladies?
What I need are large acres of freshly
mown lawns which take enough money to feed a third world country to
maintain, plus one of those golf carts which come with an attached
caddy to boost my ego and carry my clubs. Only if these conditions
are met will I be able to unleash the golf monster within. These small
patches of green with ridiculously convoluted obstacles and
non-professional metal clubs which I can imagine using to prod
cattle...no, no. In my heart I know that it just isn't right. It is
an abomination unto golf.
In the event that someone does sponsor
my entry into an exclusive golf course and gives me their prize
irons, so-spotless-it's-scary golf attire, an obnoxiously expensive
Rolex and a caddy who knows how to tastefully offer subtle
compliments on my game, you will see that I'm not just all talk. I
will hit every ball with accuracy anywhere you name except the hole.
You can bet your family
jewels on it and I will not fail you. My keen sense of balance and
intuition combined with my perfect aim and enviable skill will make
sure you look like an amazing player when you play with me. I'm
gifted like that.
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