Suck It Up, Bitch

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In the middle of the work day I ran into a friend of mine who was stressed as well.

"I need to play golf Sunday," he said.

I thought about hitting the ball and then chasing it from one spot to the next, hopefully hitting it in a spot where it could safely be hit again and eventually putting it in the cup in less than 7 or 8 shots.

I considered making fun of the guy at the tee box, talking about nothing else but how horrible that last shot was.

I contemplated being so relaxed that heaving my club across the fairway was my biggest problem.

"That'd be nice," I said. "I haven't played in three months."

We talked about the hip a little, but he didn't care much.

"You're a (insert curse word here).

I moved off into another part of the office and met with some other people.

Twenty minutes later the guy wandered by.

"Suck it up, bitch," he said. "We're teeing off at 8:50 on Sunday morning."

I started to protest.

He repeated the curse word a half a dozen times.

"Be there by 8:30 or so," he said. "You might want to stretch a bit. Also, it's a high-end course; try and wear something that doesn't have mustard on it."

So.

I'm golfing on Sunday.

I see the doctor on Tuesday.

I'm now imagining that conversation.

"Eight-thirty!" My buddy yelled as I started to walk away.

I started to text my beautiful wife to let her know.

"Are you asking permission? Suck it up, bitch."

I answered him on that one.

Think of the mother of all curse words.

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