A Good Walk Completely Spoiled

Hippo Introduccionero – Hate week could not POSSIBLY be complete without this fine piece of venom.

The last time my father hit me was on a golf course.

It was a hot, vile day and he and I were on the 9^th hole. Does it matter which hole? They all fucking suck.

I hit a terrible shot and said, “Fuck this, I’m going to the clubhouse and getting wasted.”
My father is built like a fireplug, and he is left-handed. Also, the man is deceptively quick. That punch landed square on my arm and he yelled, “You’re going to finish this game. We’re spending time together!”

The arm that received the punch went numb and I said, “Oh yeah? You can’t fucking play this game without clubs.” Then I hurled that fucking club further than my drive.

Both of my uncles drove up in their golf cart and immediately assessed the situation.

“I think Fozz should ride with us.”

I got in the cart and yelled to my father, “You punch like a fucking woman.”

I know. I am a horrible son and an Olympic-caliber asshole.

And I fucking hate golf.

Now that the end of football season approaches, I find myself wandering through the weekend, adrift like Andy Reid as he walks through a Golden Corral closed for the night. The sense of loss and depression is crippling.

What’s left to do? Count the days until baseball starts? It’s like counting the days until you are scheduled to get your scrotal sac waxed, tattooed, and pierced.

Basketball? I used to love college hoops and then I got old and the player stayed young and get the fuck off my lawn.

That leaves golf. Watching golf.

Thanks to the fact that I come from a large family, there is a tradition that dictates Sunday dinners must be attended or you risk being strangled with piano wires. You go to someone’s house, sit around, and while the food cooks you have to gather with the other men to watch TV.

My brother in laws, sons, and nephew love golf. They’re fucking demented.

The Horror Show

Every second of any golf match is excruciating. These dumb fuck millionaires tee up the ball, drive the ball, pitch the ball, and then putt the ball. I want to swallow the ball so it blocks my air way and I die, choking and sputtering.

Hushed announcers describe each and every dumb fucking swing and jizz their pants when a ball lands in the fairway! You would have thought they’d just seen Donald Trump hug a black kid the way they react.

Despite the racial diversity on the course, each golfer is whiter than Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread. Devoid of personality and chock full of smarm and cockiness, they could each use an injection of liquid PCP and a handle of cut-rate tequila.

Even the commercials suck ass.

HOW MANY FUCKING GODDAMN FUCKING GOLF BALLS DO WE NEED?

While we’re on the subject of balls, how in the name of Christ has no one figured out a way to make it easier to see the ball when it’s flying through the air. No other sport presents this challenge. I say dip those balls in nuclear waste so they have that vibrant green glow. And at the same time, the turnaround in pro golfers would keep the game fresh.

The live commentary from the dudes gathered around the television could crush the pope’s faith in humanity. And turn him into a draconian kill-god with a thirst for gore and blood.

I get that you idiots play this game. However, all of you suck. None of you would have “done it differently” because if you did, you’d be pro golfers. And that would make me hate you more.

If I’m lucky I get to hear a golf story. That’s like saying I got ass cancer and got lucky. Golf stories are boring, because people are boring and life is boring. I’ll listen to a golf story only if it involves an out of control fire, severe facial scaring, and a jail sentence. I’m still waiting for one that checks all of those boxes.

But Fozz, why don’t you just do something else?

Like hang out in the kitchen and listen to the females in my family bitch about the males in my family? Nah. I’d rather get the old Cannibal Holocaust treatment.

There are exactly 1,281 days until football starts, and as my despair continues to bloom and wrap me in its sloppy tentacles, I can find a bright spot: Greg Roman is no longer our OC.