Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Torture, suburban style

My husband likes to watch golf.

"Why the hell do you watch golf?" I ask this even though we have been married for 12 years and this scene is predictable to a fault, but I enjoy it nonetheless.

"Because it's golf," he says.

"No it's not. It's a guy trying to get a ball in a hole. It's completely pointless."

"But it's hard to get the ball in the hole," he counters.

"And after the ball is in the hole, nothing in the universe has changed," I say. "Pointless."

"What about the bankrolls of all those poor caddies hauling those bags? Do you have any idea how much those things weigh? What about the bad clothes these guys get to wear?" He pauses and peers at me over the top of his glasses. "Think about the wives of all those guys sweating their buster browns off making golf balls. What about that, Missy Pointless?"

He has his points and I am, for the moment, stymied. Then he leans forward and watches the screen with keen intent. The sportscaster's voice gets quiet and low--a good indication that something important is about to happen. A man wearing a billowy red and yellow plaid shirt walks up to a golf ball and whacks the hell out of it with a club.

"It's a guy whacking the hell out of a ball," I say. "Who cares?"


The most irritating snippet of all golf coverage ensues. The camera follows a golf ball as it traces a huge parabolic trajectory in the air and the result for us television viewers at home is nothing more than an identifiable dot moving across a flawless blue sky (although, it probably doesn't look much different to the live audience, but at least they have a physical frame of reference).

The announcer's voice hushes down further and the collective bated breath of the people watching on the green is palpable, admittedly, even in our humble living room.

Then I do the meanest thing.

I hold the remote with the clandestine stealth of a CIA operative and when the ball is just inches from the ground, I depress the channel return button with gleeful relish. QVC fills the screen and we are faced with the agonizing decision of whether or not to spend the unheard of price of $49.99 for the Deluxe Holiday Bonanza Scrapbooker's Kit.

Wedded bliss, indeed.


Ace said...


Shelli said...

cruelty at it's finest

Dongley Shlongford said...

So I guess the Fellating phase has ended?

just sayin' said...

I don't think anybody can actually see that ball flying through the air.