A Good Walk Spoiled

Hooray! Huzzah! Lefty won the Masters!

Like I give a rat's ass.

I'd love to give you a detailed Masters wrap-up, but I dislike golf, I don't care for country clubs, and most of all, I hate professional country clubbers--people who define themselves by the country clubs to which they belong. C'mon, we all know these people -- you can pick them out of any crowd by their trademark mixture of arrogance, condescension, and utterly fraudulent bonhomie.

Oh, yeah, and based on anecdotal evidence, a lot of them also seem to have unusually elongated foreheads. Somebody dial up Charles Darwin on that one, will ya?

I hate getting stuck in conversations with these people. I plaster a smile on my face and nod like a bobblehead while these bleeding rectums wax eloquent about the glories of The Masters, their latest $1,200 set of irons or all the gory details about how they finagled a chance to play TPC Sawgrass, or Pebble Beach, or Augusta, or Shinnecock, or -- and they usually genuflect when they mention this one--Pine Valley.

Hey, don't get me wrong--if you like golf and belong to a country club because it's a nice place to play a game you enjoy, more power to you. I've got no problem with you, but look around the members dining room the next time you're there trying to meet your food minimum, and you'll have no problem finding oodles of the kind of a-holes that I'm talking about.

So, is Phil Mickelson one of these guys I've just spent four paragraphs trashing? If he ain't, looks like he does a hell of an imitation.

In a nutshell, if you're looking for golf commentary, you'll have to go elsewhere, 'cause I'm nothing but a hater. In the words of immortal country clubber Judge Elihu Smails, as far as golf on this blog is concerned, "you'll get nothing and like it!"