So-called Sport of Golf

I found myself in a spot of boredom this afternoon, so I flicked on the televisual contraption and came across something that loosely resembled what I discerned as a golfing fixture. Aside from the fact that I'm super sharp, I called it out as golf because there was lots of kidney-shaped grassy knolls, and lots of people in stupid-looking Scottish slacks holding golf rackets, which was probably the giveaway to be honest.

I can't get my head around golf.  Every type of point is named after a chicken or fowl or something, and that's just stupid. Can't they just add points up like real sports? And then you have the handicap fixation, which to me means you get to swindle your opponents, right?

I don't know much about the so-called sport of golf, except that its most famous contender is now more famed for being a skanky whorebag.  I understand women chasing after Formula One drivers; they live on the edge of the edge of the chichane, and their jobs are extremely dangerous and hugely exciting, if not fairly stupid. But golfers? Really?

This particular match is called the Farmers Insurance Open, which raises some questions - most notably - how can a farmers’ body afford to sponsor a golf tournament that skanky Tiger plays in?  Australian farmers don't get out of bed for anything less than a hefty subsidy, so I couldn't see them scraping together a couple of dollars to run even a lemonade stand.  Perhaps the generosity of the American taxpayers knows no bounds.

I jumped onto The Google to look up these mysteriously wealthy farmers and discovered that Farmers Insurance are just like AAMI or the NRMA, but started out insuring the vehicles of rural farmers like 500 years ago, hence the name.  Didn't want to change your name to something that makes sense then?

Although I think this is a non-sport, you gotta give some credit to the old golfing players. Unlike the ATP Tour players at the Australian Tennis Open, who whinge and whine about distractions, like a fluttering butterfly, to the chair umpire constantly ("quiet please butterfly, quiet please"), Tiger and his cohorts have to contend with caddies whispering in their ear, being chased up the fairway by their fans, annoying paragliders lurking twenty metres above their heads, and high waisted tweed tartan knickerbockers, replete with a Nike logo in Tiger's case.

Rockets and Oranges

I live in a first world country, which means I don't have to worry about food, water or sanitation, at least until I go to an open air loo in a hick country town.

So basically, for the most part, my mind is free to concern itself with such pointless matters as the vagaries of my mood on any given day (usually Monday to Friday, funnily enough), the hideousness of the shock frocks at the Golden Globes, or, tonight, the outrageous bright orangeness of the outfits of the linepeoples at the Australian Open tennis in Melbourne. 

Think of the most radiant orange day-glo neon hue you can possibly imagine and then go ten times brighter, shine 18 big arse sporting lights on it and stick a couple of high-voltage neon lamps down their pants for that blinding effect.

I guess if Mothership Earth has a power outage we'll at least have Rod Laver Arena to guide us back to orbit or whatever happens when we turn the lights out at night.  I don't know, I'm not an astronauteer.  Plus I don't need to know about science; that's what Sheldon and The Big Bang Theory are for.

Despite the fact that I've almost mastered a high-level (see: very basic) understanding of entropy, the second law of thermodynamics - which is in fact a true story - my grasp of anything else related to science or math is akin to that of a kindergartener, perhaps even leaning toward advanced preschool level.

My brain just refuses to acknowledge that science and math make any sense whatsoever.  The other day my sister and I watched one of those disastrous disaster movies made by the special effects trainees at Universal Studios.  My sister possesses a university degree in some brain debilitatingly boring science shit and found it necessary to laugh raucously throughout at the actors lack of understanding of the basics of physics as they tossed out lines like "magnetic activity is unpredictable". 

Okay, given, magnets don't really surprise you that often with their behaviour, but which science is phsyics again?  I know; embarrassing.  Science actually hurts my brain and math leaves even more collateral damage.

What's that Skip?

Lately I have been exercising up a storm, up a mountain, during the night.  It's the latest thing, you know.  I love late twilight in the bush - it's just me, the kangaroos and the 150 or so other people with the exact same gameplan.  I have no idea when exercisement became so fashionable, but fortunately for them all, me and the roos are mostly more than happy to share our mountain.

So last night I went for my exercise roam at nightfall, when it was still a balmy 32 degrees under the shade of a eucalypt tree.  It was still a highly uncivilised weather situation, but I ain’t going for no run at midnight, and I don't do mornings, so what's a girl gonna do?  

On my descent from the mountain I came face-to-hairy-face with a chocolate poodle who I can only describe as a bouncy midget horse.  Abbey was most likely a standard poodle, but she was ginormous, super friendly and was dragging her leash behind her.  I stayed with her for around ten minutes until we both realised she was by herself so we started to walk back down to find her parental units with me holding her leash, unaware that I needed to buckle myself in for the ride. 

Abbey was so thrilled to meet me, or something, that she decided that we had to run really fast down the mountain and we also had to torpedo ourselves randomly and erratically into the bush whenever we laid eyes on a kangaroo, especially when we neared a dangerous cliff face.  These were the rules.  There are about 750 kangaroos per square metre at that time of day, so that was exciting.

We eventually found Abbey’s dad - who was beside himself with stress – while Abbey continued to try and chase everything that bounced.  I reluctantly said goodbye to her while she completely ignored me.  Great, now I think I want a poodle.  I'm a total sucker for dogs.  And kangaroos.  I LOVE  kangaroos.  I could sit and watch them for hours.  Or maybe for ten minutes; they don't really do a great deal.

Just in case a cyber-person-who-isn’t-that-cluey from someplace-that-isn't-Australia reads this post, I don't actually have a pet kangaroo.  No-one in Australia does, except for those weirdos who have pet roos.  Kangaroos are wild and free, plus they really don't care for human interaction at all. They would make a really sucky pet actually, but they are beautiful.

Every now and then my stupid local government decides that it’s best if we have a cull of kangaroos, because apparently you can have too many of them, which is just utter bollocks.  You can never, ever have too many kangaroos.  Humans just have to make way for them, that's all.

These politicised fools never carry out human 'bogan' culls, mind you, and there are definitely too many of them.  The whole idea of a roo cull is disgusting, but a bogan cull seems to be a perfectly acceptable and agreeable way to get rid of feral pests if you ask me.