There are few things I love more than The Masters. This list may or may not be limited to whiskey, mascots, boobs, and food delivery. Let me say that I very well could be the worst golfer in the world. I fucking hate it. In fact, I stopped playing because I couldn't stand to be so horrific at a sport. It pecker checked my delicate psyche. I also hate visors, so there's that. But, watching The Masters is like having a pet rabbit that gets me beers and dusts the mantle. It just feels right.
I've just poured my first of many cocktails and I have to say that I'm on cloud nine, which is a slight dog leg left. I think my love for The Masters stems from the fact that I am absolutely not living vicariously through the players. I unequivocally know that there is no way I can make any of the same shots, nor can I look that fucking good in plaid. I can't say the same for any other sport.
I'm going to have a few drinks dressed like Bobby Jones. I'll share more thoughts later on (Blatant lie).
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1 comment:
Splendid work, sir. I have pillows for testicles.
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