You know what? Fuck golf. And it's not the "Oh-it's-so-hard-to-hit-that-little-round-ball-into-such-a-tiny-cup" bullshit, either. There's no reason for me to get frustrated about that because I don't practice and, therefore, I have no reason to be good. No, it's the "who-has-five-fucking-hours-to-dick-around-in-the-blazing-sun-when-
Seriously, I can see if you don't have any fucking kids and you're just awash in extra time -- sure, go ahead and piss away a third of your waking hours. Go nuts, you irresponsible sack of shit. I used to do that myself, like, a million fucking years ago. But now, if I have even 20 minutes of extra time (which I don't) I use that shit. Extra time's like gilded-ambrosia with delicate wings of gossamer, and I seek it out like it's the holy grail.
But instead of savoring that five hours of "free time, "which I haven't had in, maybe, forever, I hacked my way around 18 holes of the narrowest golf course in the world, pulling every goddamn muscle and straining and/or tearing every ligament in my time-wasting body. And I lost six balls. Eight, actually, if you count the two that spontaneously combusted from the vapor-lock in my drawers.
The only thing that kept me from taking a mashie to my head was the occasional snippet of conversation I was able to sneak in with the guys from work who were golfing with me. It was basically: approach ball, grab wrong club, swing wrong club in general vicinity of ball, occasionally hit ball but no more than 35 feet, pull major muscle group in back, double over in pain, crawl back to cart, ask friend about his new basement redo, drive 35 feet, repeat.
So yeah, the golf clubs are going into a time capsule, only to be opened when I reach the age of 104... or if I see a rat in the basement.