My practice swing was gorgeous, smooth and easy, nice and slow Then I hit a fucking worm-burner—so much for “drive for show” I've got two balls in my pocket and another in the trees I came out here to break eighty—my beer's at least that many degrees

“Keep your head down, left arm straight, let the club do all the work” “Swing easy, tempo's everything”—from some advice-dispensing jerk I tried all that together, nearly dislocated my knee He said, “What the fuck was that?” I said, “You fucking tell me!”

I paid for this whole fucking course, I'm getting what I'm owed I've seen the woods, three other greens, and someone's private road My buddy said, “Just punch it out—that tree's mostly air” Well, ninety percent's a fucking lie—I hit what's solid there

“Drive for show and putt for dough”—drink till you forget the score My handicap's about six beers; that last hole called for more I need a little swing oil—this shit ain't fixing itself My only trophy's a bottle opener sitting on the shelf

“Never up and never in”—I gave that putt a smack It flew right past the fucking hole; I needed GPS back “You're still away, you talented motherfucker,” came the shout I said, “That's close enough—a gimme.” They said, “Putt it out!”

“You can't fix ugly—buy a driver,” sounded pretty wise Three hundred bucks, same fucking slice, but now it's supersized “That's not a slice, that's a beer fade!” I hollered from the tee It faded through somebody's porch—they weren't as proud as me

The cart came with cup holders—that's equipment for the sport I've finally found one golf skill where I'm never coming up short The more I drink, the less that fucking triple bogey hurts We're looking like a bowling team in overpriced golf shirts