Ah yes, it’s that time of year again. The Masters. Golf’s most sacred, tradition-soaked weekend where dudes in pastel pants walk on pristine grass and everyone whispers like they’re narrating foreplay in a Victorian novel. Allegedly, it’s exciting. A spiritual experience. A tournament so classy you can practically smell the cigars and generational wealth through your screen.
Me? I’d rather watch two slugs fuck in slow motion. At least that’s got some suspense.
Don’t get me wrong, I get that if you’re balls-deep into golf, this is your Super Bowl. You probably know all the players’ stats, their caddy’s birthdays, and how the moisture on the 12th green affects a soft fade. And hey, power to you—sincerely. I’m not here to yuck your yum.
But let’s not pretend watching a guy take six minutes to line up a putt is high-octane drama. It’s like edging, but with no climax. Just slow, quiet, frustrating build-up until someone misses a birdie and you go refill your scotch.
And while I’m already ranting—can we talk about that absolute circus of a “singing” show? You know the one. Grown-ass adults in furry costumes singing pop songs while a panel of C-list celebrities drool and say shit like, “I can see your voice!” You can’t, Karen. You’re just horny for the lemur costume and pretending it’s Sia. That show makes golf look like Fight Club.
Anyway, back to Augusta. Best of luck to the golfers. May your drives be long, your irons stiff, and your putts straight and true. I won’t be watching, but I respect the hustle. Somebody’s got to wear that green jacket and flex on a lawn that probably costs more to maintain than my apartment building.
As for me, I’ll be over here watching paint dry—and at least that dries hard.