There are a great many reasons no one wants me on a golf course. One of them is that I look ridiculous in purple.
I should start by saying that with apologies to both my mom and Jim Furyk, I’ve never really been into golf. This is for one extremely simple, profound reason: I am terrible at golf. I am terrible at it in grave, hideous fashion. I am terrible at it in ways that make it so you can actually watch my 7-year-old lose respect for me in real time, in ways that should be sung about by Tom Waits, in ways that if our culture somehow celebrated the appearance of playing golf as though you’re being repeatedly jabbed in the brain with an electric toothbrush, I would be totally winning.