Golf

My brother and I were talking on the phone last night. We’d both received “invitations” from a mutual acquaintance to help with some task that requires “four men” but is “no big deal”. We have been wracking our brains, but the acquaintance was cagier than usual and didn’t give us much to go on. So we started speculating on what it could be.

Lots of ideas came to mind, each more distasteful than the last. When we finally hit on the most terrifying option of all: they might want us to make up a foursome in golf!

The only redeeming value of this possibility would be that we’d have an entire bag full of implements we could use to escape the depravity.

My brother reckoned that a driver (wood) would be the best. I think a pitching or sand wedge would be best. That way, with the sharp angles on the wedge, you’d be most likely to be able to kill yourself before incapacitating yourself.

I mean. How much would it suck to try to bludgeon yourself to death only to incapacitate yourself before you could complete the job? You're lying there, on the ground, gurgling like an improperly maintained drip coffee maker with an upper respiratory infection, and your fucking right side is incapacitated. How the hell is a right-hander supposed to deliver himself the coup de grace with a dysfunctional right arm?

So, there you are. You’ve almost turned yourself into a vegetable, but your arm went into the shitter while you still had just enough cognition left to recognize your miserable state for the rest of your fucking miserable life. And you can’t even give yourself the one more whack upside the head it would take blissfully to submerge into a discognitive state.

All you can do is lie there. Toss out the occasional gurgle or wheeze. Stare at the intended implement of your doom, naturally lying just out of your grasp. Grasp just exactly how much it’s gonna suck to spend the next forty or so years contemplating the complete fucking mess you just made of your own escape from the terror that is golf.