Ah, Hell, Give me a 6
So Cheetah Woods got busted for a rules infraction during his round of golf at the Masters.
What's amazing to me is that he got busted by a television viewer.
Can you imagine the scene if all of the shots were recorded during a friendly round of golf with the Grape Apes?
As a purely amateur golfer some of the scenarios are downright comical. I still hear it from a buddy of mine after refusing to add a stroke on a ball that I swung at, and missed completely, because the 11-pound steak and half a bottle of tequila I consumed the night before restricted my movements.
"That's a stroke!" He cried from his spot on the cart as soon as I swung and missed.
I laughed him off.
I proceeded to hit the next three shots perfectly and reported the par at the end of the hole.
"Bogey," he said.
At the next hole he asked four other golfers to interpret for him.
"Definitely. You addressed the ball," one idiot said.
"It's a rule," the second idiot chimed in.
Much to my chagrin, I had to take a stroke. (Hi Kim).
I bitched about it for the next five years.
In fact, I'm still bitching about it.
Because you see, we are not Cheetah Woods.
We are a bunch of pathetic hacks slubbing around a cow pasture in the middle of a shit-hole town because we want to get away from the aggravations of every day work.
We'll never get good.
We might hit a decent shot every now and again, but it's all we got on a week-to-week basis in the world of sports.
And I've seen golf change in recent years. We used to be real worried about our score. Now we laugh it off when one of us goes in the barrel on a hole, or two, or three.
We can all see it coming too.
"Pops is struggggling."
"Chuck is one swing away from quitting."
"I can't even lift it in the mother%^$&ng air!"
At those times we don't even ask one another for the score at the end of the hole.
"I don't give a shit anymore," might be the response we'd get if we asked for the score when someone has spent the last half hour in the woods.
"Give him an 8."
We are all friendly enough.
"What did you get on the last one?"
"Ah, hell, give me a six."
"A six? You putted five times. It's a 530 yard hole."
"I want a six!"
Sometimes it might be easier to just fill out the scorecard in the car and just drink beer in the parking lot.
"Broke 90 today!"
"Me too! Best round ever!!"
What's amazing to me is that he got busted by a television viewer.
Can you imagine the scene if all of the shots were recorded during a friendly round of golf with the Grape Apes?
As a purely amateur golfer some of the scenarios are downright comical. I still hear it from a buddy of mine after refusing to add a stroke on a ball that I swung at, and missed completely, because the 11-pound steak and half a bottle of tequila I consumed the night before restricted my movements.
"That's a stroke!" He cried from his spot on the cart as soon as I swung and missed.
I laughed him off.
I proceeded to hit the next three shots perfectly and reported the par at the end of the hole.
"Bogey," he said.
At the next hole he asked four other golfers to interpret for him.
"Definitely. You addressed the ball," one idiot said.
"It's a rule," the second idiot chimed in.
Much to my chagrin, I had to take a stroke. (Hi Kim).
I bitched about it for the next five years.
In fact, I'm still bitching about it.
Because you see, we are not Cheetah Woods.
We are a bunch of pathetic hacks slubbing around a cow pasture in the middle of a shit-hole town because we want to get away from the aggravations of every day work.
We'll never get good.
We might hit a decent shot every now and again, but it's all we got on a week-to-week basis in the world of sports.
And I've seen golf change in recent years. We used to be real worried about our score. Now we laugh it off when one of us goes in the barrel on a hole, or two, or three.
We can all see it coming too.
"Pops is struggggling."
"Chuck is one swing away from quitting."
"I can't even lift it in the mother%^$&ng air!"
At those times we don't even ask one another for the score at the end of the hole.
"I don't give a shit anymore," might be the response we'd get if we asked for the score when someone has spent the last half hour in the woods.
"Give him an 8."
We are all friendly enough.
"What did you get on the last one?"
"Ah, hell, give me a six."
"A six? You putted five times. It's a 530 yard hole."
"I want a six!"
Sometimes it might be easier to just fill out the scorecard in the car and just drink beer in the parking lot.
"Broke 90 today!"
"Me too! Best round ever!!"
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