Hitting Balls with a Club Doesn't Mean You Have Any
If there's one thing in this country that is way too popular, it's golf. I say "thing" rather than "sport" because I use the term "sport" to refer to things that are sports. The only excuse anyone has for calling golf a sport is the fact that not everyone actually uses a golf cart. In other words, the act of walking is the one physical activity that justifies, in some people's minds, calling lawn pool a fucking sport.
Now, I like pool. But I don't call it a sport. I even like ping-pong (which, frankly, induces at least as much sweat as prancing around a golf course on a hot day in long pants because you forgot to listen to the goddamn weather report), but I don't call ping-pong a sport either. I don't call pool and ping-pong "sports" because a sport requires more than competition. It requires you to fucking run, for Christ's sake. Or you should at least be (a) sitting on something that's running, or (b) moving your ass by some other means above the speed of five miles an hour. In other words, I'll allow horse racing, car racing, and ice hockey to be considered sports, but dog racing and archery are out. Now, if you had team midget dog racing archery wars, then fine, that would be a sport. I'd love to see a bunch of midgets riding dogs and shooting arrows at each other.
If football were exactly the same, but everyone was required to walk instead of run, it wouldn't be a sport. Getting tackled while you're walking doesn't make you an athlete. And please don't try to start a "senior" tour in the National Football League. I don't give a shit how many broken 80-year-old bones there are strewn all over the field, I am not granting those senile bastards the privilege of calling what they're doing a "sport".
Whether you're 80 years old or 18, I am not accepting the phrase "I am an athlete" out of your mouth unless I see those fucking knees bend.
My Trip to San Diego
While in San Diego recently, I saw a commercial for a cable company called "Cox". If I were in their marketing department, I'd milk that name for all it's worth.
"Want Cox? Now you can have all the Cox you want for only $29.95 a month. And if you sign up for Cox now, we'll throw in three months of free Cox. You'll wonder how you ever lived without Cox. Month after month, nothing but Cox. Cox, Cox, Cox. Get your Cox now!"
Every day in my hotel, I moved the trash can out of the bathroom to near the second sink, where I had set up my toiletries. And every day, the cleaning lady moved it back into the bathroom. Evidently, that's where Bob Hilton (or whoever the hell it was) deemed it necessary to have the trash can.
If I didn't actually care about my property, I would have liked to leave a note near the trash can that said:
"Please stop being such a Hilton Corporation robot and leave my fucking trash can here. Can't you take a fucking hint?"
At least I know the cleaning lady wasn't the kind of person who looks through people's things. I know this, because I left the notebook in which I wrote this in a bag in my room, and there was no evidence of a shit fit having taken place. Either that, or she can't read English.
Yes I can, you ungrateful shit.
Hmm... I don't remember writing that.
