Fatty/Major Winner John Daly
I went to the driving range this afternoon. You see, I’m a freelance writer, so if I’m not on a job or trying to find one, I can go to the golf course on a Monday afternoon and not feel terribly guilty about it.
Now, golf isn’t one of those sports that requires its participants to be in top physical condition. This is not a game of speed, or strength, or endurance. In fact, it’s somewhat fascinating to watch a fat man take a swipe at a golf ball, and even more fascinating when that fat man is really, really good.
Like our friend John Daly. He’s a real tubby, but man, can he smack ol’ whitey. He’s got a shoulder turn that’s flat-out amazing.
Me? I am no John Daly. And not just because I don’t drink Crown Royale right out of the bottle. But I do love the golf. Problem is, when you’re not in decent shape, golf isn’t much fun. So after hitting about 40 balls on the driving range in 85 degree heat, I was feeling it. Which is pretty fucking weak.
In fact, thanks to being fat and out of shape, I decided to bag on playing, and I went home. All the more reason to get my ass in shape and cut the weight.
