Why professional golfers are whiny little bitches


I am a golfer. There I said it. I’m not ashamed. Okay, maybe a little, but not much. So naturally I spent the last four days watching the greatest golfers in the world compete in the Masters, one of golf’s most prestigious events. I was shocked and horrified, horrified and shocked as I watched one pampered, Pansy-assed, Candy-faced golfer after another whine, moan, and bitch about how bad they had it. “Oh, it’s so terrible, we hit the ball and we don’t know where it’s going, we never know where it’s going to end up. We can’t work under these conditions, golf isn’t the supposed be like this, it’s too hard, we don’t like it, we’re not having any fun out there.” Let me tell you something motherfucker, golf is not supposed to be easy. You’re supposed to suffer when you play golf. Golf is supposed to make you miserable and put you through the ringer, just like life. You think you had tough working conditions this weekend? My grandfather was a coal miner. When he went to work in the morning it was still dark, and he worked his ass off all day, and when he dragged himself up out of the mines, after his shift was over, it was dark again. This man went for days weeks without seeing the sun, toiling away in a coal mine while black lung disease was trying to do a hostile takeover of his respiratory system. That man had a hard job. That man had every reason to whine about how tough it was. But did he? No. Professional golfers whine. You want a hard job? Try being Pat Tillman. Now that guy had a hard job. I’d say having to worry about chili dipping a sand wedge doesn’t really hold a candle to having your head blown off by your own guys. If you don’t believe me go ask Sergeant Tillman about how tough it is to be a professional golfer. Oh that’s right, you can’t, he’s dead. I thought this Masters was one of the most entertaining spectacles I’ve ever seen him. It gave me such immense pleasure to watch all these superstars who live in the lap of luxury snivel and crawl their way around Augusta. But if you ask me, it wasn’t hard enough. I want them to make Augusta, and every other golf course the PGA plays on, a hundred times harder. I want to see these wankers go all Tin Cup, and hit one ball after another into the water, splash splash splash. I want to see them breaking their clubs on trees and or in frustration. I want to see them four and five putt those monstrous greens. I want them to feel like I do on a golf course. I never know where the balls going. I never know where it’s going to end up. I want them to finish at least 15 strokes over par every single round. Just like I do. If it was up to me the winning score at next year’s Masters would be 100 over par. Let’s see how Tiger and Phil and Ernie hold up when they have to play around like I do. That would make me very happy. Well, that’s my two cents worth, and with inflation I owe you one.