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.