NEEDING AN EXCUSE TO GO OUTSIDE

Outside is the only excuse you need to go outside. There are trees and grass and mountains and air and motherfucking lakes sometimes. There are streams and toads and breezes and ladybugs and birds. Outside is the motherfucking shit. The only reason you need to get all up in it is that it’s a day of the week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday, go outside! January February March April you get the picture, go outside! If Mother Nature were a real lady I would make love to her ever-so-gently after waiting at least four dates, because I respect the hell out of that sweet bitch. Go outside! Golf isn’t a good excuse to go outside. Sunsets, sunrises, the moon, stars, fucking snowballs and raindrops are. Don’t even bring up acid rain you crazy nuts because that shit feels nice on my face when I look up and laugh and stomp in the puddles. Outside is so goddamned amazing it even has a magazine named after it. That’s some next level Oprah Winfrey shit, you ungrateful bastards! Go Outside! Don’t even get my shit started on flowers. Have you ever stopped to think about how goddamned motherfucking amazing flowers are? They make your heart sing like Luther Vandross at his niece’s graduation ceremony. They’re more beautiful than Angelina Jolie and that fine ass ladywoman who used to be married to Seal. Maybe she still is I don't even know. Go outside! Outside has bears and zebras and giraffes and motherfucking bunny rabbits. You don’t need an excuse, you need a door you greasy lunkheads! Or a window! I’m gonna jump out of one right now! Then I’ll be out motherfuckin side!

 

WEARING GOLF SHOES TO A PRO GOLF TOURNAMENT

Let me paint a little word picture for you. A guy wakes up on the couch still reeking from the 9 Bud Light Limes he drank the night before as his kids finished the Internet on their iPads. His wife doesn’t appreciate when he “gets that way” because he acts weird and snores in his sleep. Hence Sofa City. He’s recently taken up permanent residence in Chateau Bowwow, but he can claw his way out of that tomorrow. Today, he and a few of his old fraternity brothers scored free tickets to the Quicken Loans National PGA Golf Tournament just outside Bethesda, Maryland. 

He claims to love golf because it’s a nice excuse to be outdoors and enjoy a sport that not only relaxes and challenges him, but gives him a chance to ponder the big picture. The real reason he loves it is because he can drink all day, be away from his kids and gawk at that friendly cart girl with the epic rack. He’ll never do a deep enough emotional dive to come to grips with the fact that he actually hates the sport. He has no talent for it, so it’s slowly becoming one more thing that makes him feel small. What he really wants to do is paint landscapes, but fears the razzing he’ll get from his friends about how much a cock-gobbling homo he is. 

Apathetic is the best word to describe the way he feels about his job as an outside sales rep for a large medical equipment company. But he endures it. After all, it’s too late to change careers at this point, right? He’s recently taken out a 2^nd mortgage on his home and borrowed a sizable chunk of money from his sister, unbeknownst to his wife. Not because times are tight, but because of a few bad decisions involving penny stocks. 

Still, he’s obsessed with having the latest and greatest golf equipment. He loves the look of pure covetous jealousy when he whips out his surrogate wang on that first tee box. He always pushes to hit from the blacks, but is secretly bummed when his friends acquiesce. After he throws on his pleated shorts, striped polo, ankle socks and a visor, it feels downright criminal to wear normal running shoes. It’s like he’s offending the great and powerful golf gods. Plus, he’s wants to get close to his favorite player, a 22-year-old Aussie who’s as sharp on Twitter as his is around the greens. There will be grassy knolls and uneven terrain for him to contend with all day long. He’d hate to miss out on seeing his hero. Or worse, spilling any of that sweet sweet hair of the dog.