One of the best on-going jokes from back in the day was the prevalence of the Golf Prick. Over at Barking Carnival, Scipio, Vasherized, and others lampooned those earnest cubical jockeys that come out of their Michelob comas this time every year to plague corporate America. You know them. They air swing invisible clubs in the hallway. They wear
knockoff OFFICIAL performance polos from Augusta to the office. Without question there are a minimum of two vices that are severely hampering their work performance.
Appreciate this BC brilliance, won't you? This is the Golf Prick describing their buddy:
Ted? Tedddddd in Global Accounts? GREAAAAAT GUY! BIG STICK! Owns a waverunner; his second wife Patti has a tremendous fake rack. Has a place out in Olde Thornewilde Heights. The low 600s. Backyard DOES NOT back to the preserve. He has a stepson from Patti's first marriage, so fuck that. SHARP dresser. Padraig Harrington collection. Played with him at the retreat in Scottsdale - laid up down the back 9 when he got a stroke up on me after a bullshit break on the apron. Questionable downswing. Still, BIG STICK. Buttfucked a lady-boy accidentally in Mexico on a fraternity trip once. But GREAAAAT guy. Looooove Patti. Really like Patti. Stepkid is an arsonist or a Goth or some shit. So, like I said: fuck that. But Patti is a sweet girl and a really class lady. Takes Zoloft. Cries a lot. Would love to suck on those fake tits of hers. Natural blonde. But Ted...like I said - GREAAAAAT guyyyyy."
The Golf Prick will inevitably be shirking work responsibilities today. His gout-induced ever-widening ass will be hunched around the conference room TV saying things like:
"Nobody else makes that shot. NO-body. Uh uh. GREAT hip turn."
"With all the pressure he’s under, six months away from the game …"
"He’s still The Man."
"I wish I could get away with what he did …"
"Did you see that Nike ad?"
"Awesome. I teared up actually. Did his Dad really call from heaven?"
"Dude. It’s Phil Knight. He's a walking deity. He can do anything."
"Whatever. What hole is Tiger on?"
And of course, the Golf Prick has the interests you would expect in life. No, no - not English literature or being a good father.
Living in a community with a faux Olde English name
Have you ever played __________?
Who is, and who is not, a GREAAAAT guy
This is Mickelson's Year
Dallas. Much better than Houston!
Who has fucked up stepkids (or possibility of acquiring fucked up stepkids)
Who does, and does not possess "a big stick"
Their incredible play of an unfathomable obstacle
Man, would you look at that ass! (punctuated by whistle followed by swing of non-existent driver)
Where you bought your shoes
Does it back to preserve?
Am I turning my wrist over? No, seriously. Watch me again.
Age of consent laws
Do you know who that guy's Dad is?
- White belts
- Talking about how much things cost
- Second home at Traditions?
- Cart girls
- "Does your husband play?"
- Creative credit maneuvering to get out of financial snafus
- Colonial (better than the Byron)
The suburbs of Dallas (and Fort Worth!), Houston, San Antonio, and Austin are TEEMING with these guys. Our own Shooter Flatch went to the Masters this week! I'm friends with some - hell, I'M kind of a Golf Prick:
- I love to play golf
- I was a caddie when I was a teenager
- I've gotten in a fistfight on a golf course
- My middle name is Weston
- Whether consciously or subconsciously I size up other dudes by if they'd be hell or not to spend four hours on a golf course with (NOTE: you don't even have to be a golfer)
- I've rolled a golf cart
It's Masters Week. You'll get to hear fake bird noises come through your TV. Jim Nantz will coo and whisper sweet sexual nothings to a golf course. 40-something year old Longhorns will loudly live through Jordan Spieth.
Enjoy, friends. Gig 'em.