Anyone in their right mind would be suspicious about golfers in the first place. Just look at the stupid clothes they wear. And one glove. Only one. What is this – a convention of Michael Jackson impersonators?
Think about it for a moment. There is our little friend, the ball, cuddled up next to the Missus, warm and cosy in their little corner of the golf bag, maybe a bit of jiggy jig going on. Then this dirty big hairy hand reaches in, grabs him by the face and drags him out. Talk about blue balls.
The poor little sod is still in shock when you decide you’ve had enough of handling him and sit him down on a tiny little seat amid the green grass. What’s going on here? Potty training?
Then you pull out a club. Whack! You belt the little fellow in the back of the head. You don’t even try to pretend it’s something else like a Trajectory Accelerator. No, it’s just called a club. Bloody cavemen ran around belting each other over the head with clubs. What the hell? Racial memory incidents? Neanderthal flashbacks?
Now the obvious thing to do would be to hit the ball nice and straight. But do you do that? Noooo. Our friend the ball is sent skewing wildly off to one side. Into the trees he goes, bouncing around like a ball inside a manic pinball machine. Bing! Bang! Ding! Boing! Until finally, mercifully, he drops down to the ground.
Adding to your litany of crimes, you lot are all hopelessly blind and go wandering off in the wrong direction while looking for the ball. Heck, if you wanted it so much in the first place, why did you club it as far away from you as you could get it?
The ball starts feeling lonely there in the long grass by himself. “Oi, over here,” he starts squeaking. But you lot are deaf as well as blind.
At long last, you manage to find him. Any apologies? Not bloody likely. You select another club from your arsenal and belt him again. Straight into another tree and he comes rocketing back at you, just missing your head, and out onto the fairway. Except now the ball has gone backwards and you’re further away from the end than you were five minutes ago.
Fairway? Fairway? There’s nothing fair about this lark, mate.
Yet another club is pulled out. You have a whole damn bag of things to choose from. Even serial killers don’t carry that much equipment around with them to attack people.
Whack. This time you really belt the poor sod nice and high. He is just getting over that shock and starting to enjoy the view, when he realises that gravity is catching up on things and pulling him back down to the ground. Fast.
Sheeeaaatttt!
This time at least, it is onto some nice, soft, short-cropped green grass that cushions the impact. Ahhhh.
Next, having played He-Man with your clubs, belting the crap out of the poor sod, now you just gently tap him this time. Into a hole. His whole world view is now just a couple of inches across.
“Oi – can anyone see me down here?”
The dirty big hairy hand reaches down and drags him out by his face once more.
“Why – my ball is dirty.”
Well, waddya expect? You’ve just beaten the crap outta him, smashing into the ground, the trees, the grass – of course the poor little bastard is a bit grubby.
So you shove him in a ball cleaner, one of those stupid things with the handle on the side to wind it around. It’s OK for you – you’re just standing there, enjoying the sun while gently turning the handle around. But inside the poor little bastard is going through a massive washing machine wash cycle.
Having finally half-drowned him, do you finally give him a break? Shit no. You do it all again. Another bloody
seventeen times!Golfers. Hah. What a pack of bastards.
Anyone know what my tee-off time is?
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