Liquid sunshine cascades over the lush flora that surrounds me. A gentle breeze caresses my cheek like a mother soothing a crying newborn. Morning dew twinkles delicately on the grass. Somewhere songbirds are gently cooing a song that sounds almost identical to George Michael’s seminal classic “One More Try”. My khaki’s are still warm from the dryer, and the crease that adorns my leg is looking more razor-sharp then ever. My stretching exercises are complete, my coffee has been downed, and I have worked my psyche into a veritable laser beam of Buddhist concentration. You could smash a coconut over my skull and I probably wouldn’t even notice. After some quick deliberation, I pluck my weapon of choice from my bag and ready myself for the battlefield that stands before me. I precisely position my Titleist 3 atop the tee, and get in a few practice swings. Only God can save me now, and in all likelihood, he won’t. I coil the 3-wood around my neck, envision greatness ahead, and let her rip. “Fuck, bitch, cunt, shit, twat, whore, cockhole, TITTY TWIST!!!” breaks the morning’s serenity with great fervour. My ball sails all of 14 feet, curving violently into the brush, quickly disappearing along with my enlarged sense of self-regard.

Even my scorecard is making fun of me. I consult the layout of the first ball-breaking hole and notice that it says Handicap: 3. That’s just rude if you ask me. Just because I swing a golf club like old people fuck, doesn’t make me handicapped, and I scoff at your attempts to try and punish my score because of it. But I digress. I usually tell people that I regularly break 100 on a good day at the links, but this is just my testosterone driven machismo talking. The sad truth is, I average around 135, and that’s including my own creative score keeping skills. Mulligans are a big part of my game, along with the tried and true method of kicking your ball out of the rough when no one’s looking.

Ahh it feels so goddamn cathartic to let all of you in on my terrible secret: Yes, I am a terrible golfer, one might even say Barkleyesque, and that’s okay. Country clubs are filled with my kind. We arrive on the course looking slick with our Big Bertha drivers, our Callaway irons and our Ping wedges, yet at the end of 18 we still suck more ass than a Guatemalan prostitute. This is the beauty of golf; you can’t fake the funk. You can walk, talk and dress the part, but when you step up to the first tee and shank that fucker into oncoming traffic, no one in their right mind will believe you deserve the $6000 clubs that you put on your Mastercard last month.

The course can be a cruel mistress, indeed. She toys with your emotions, teasing you with her freshly-manicured greens, like the flirty girl at the party who admits she just got a Brazilian wax. The path to success is often long and arduous, but once you finally hear the metallic ting of ball hitting tin cup, you will only want more. For as much you enjoy each and every lonely stroke, the real fun only comes/cums after you’ve stuck it in the hole. You have penetrated the supple womb of sporting glory, and you’ll be damned if you wear any protection. From that point on, you’ll only want to do it again and again (17 times to be exact). And yes, there will be some rough patches, but that’s when you have to reach deep down inside of yourself, connect shaft to ball(s) and trudge onward, young soldier. You are undertaking a valiant and noble crusade, and where others before you have failed, you will vanquish. Where they have tripped, you will stand proudly, smiling in the whorish face of the Golf Goddess. You will return to the clubhouse, weary but not broken. You will order a tall beer, sit down and thank her for helping you to expand your curse-word vocabulary. You will undoubtedly need to draw from it again at a later date.