My New Weakness

Nothing beats sitting next to a naked 67-year old man in a room full of steam.

Am I right?

For full effect, download "If I Were A Rich Man" from the Soundtrack of Fiddler on the Roof, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

In my meager 27 years upon this Earth, I have experienced many great things. Courtside Jazz tickets, snowboarding trips at fancy ski resorts, not having to explain to my significant other where I was at 3 am, these have all been the highlights of my life.

All of those were flushed down the marble-tiled drain this afternoon as I fully indulged myself at what is called, a spa.

The Royal Jericho (read in a Ron Burgundy accent): "I could be wrong, but I believe that a spa is an old, old wooden ship from the civil war era."

My friends, a spa is in fact the greatest thing created since my blog itself, and honestly, it's tough to top this sucker. A spa is the pinnacle of relaxing methods. It's a waterfall of emotion cascading into....




...sorry, I just got distracted for a moment as a topless woman was getting her bikini painted on in the art store next to me. Sin city is a very bad place I tell you what.

I have always heard women talk about spas and massages and waterfall baths, and I never understood why they thought they were just as important as their platinum Mastercards. But as I bounced from massaging pools to saunas to an isolated bubble bed where a woman tickled my back with her hair, I came to the full realization that spas, are where it's at.

And I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Average-sized Applegate and the Rhinestone Cowboy sat with me in the steam room and just soaked out all of our cares and worries. It was a moment of true romance between us as we sat and made farting noises with the pools of water draped to our backs. As the Rhinestone Cowboy put it, we "bronded".

I think that spas have become my new obsession. I'll want them, I'll need them, oh baby, oh baby. They will be to me what Facebook statuses are to stay-at-home Moms. Spas are my addiction.

Even if there's a naked Grandpa next to me.

Great Expectations

I went golfing yesterday with a man who I admire immensely; my boss. I know that there is only a small percentage of people who can say that without a sarcastic smirk beginning to pucker up from the corners of their mouths. As we were teeing up for the first hole, one of the most profound pieces of advice that I have heard in years trickled out from his stockpile of wisdom and landed in my lap. And I'm sure glad I was paying attention.

My boss: "I hate golfing with guys that take the game way too serious. The game isn't even fun when you're with them. Always getting upset and frustrated at bad shots and all."

Swamp Thing: "Yeah, I know what you mean."

My boss: "They have these ideas in their heads about how they want their shots to play out, and when they don't actually go that way, it messes them up. They don't live up to their expectations and it ruins them."

Cue Jiminy Cricket grabbing my shirt collar, slapping me across the forehead and directing my full attention to this wise sage.

My boss: "That's the problem with having expectations of something, anything. If you have this perfect idea of what something should be like, and it doesn't turn out that way, then it messes you up. That's why there is no reason to have any expectations at all in life. Do that, and you'll be fine."

For a split second yesterday morning, I almost felt a drop of moisture beginning to protrude from beneath my eyelid after hearing what he said.

Almost.

Those words stuck with me for the rest of the day, and even later into the night, long after he and I enjoyed some of the best nine holes of golf that you can buy for eight bucks. And although he was just making casual conversation with one of his employees, semi-jeering at the overstuffed, compensating foursome of anal-tempered idiots in front of us, who spent the day boiling over with rage at the outcome of their poor chip shots, his impromptu analysis just might be a mental benchmark that I can hang my hat on in years to come.

Too often in life we create absurd expectations out of nothing. For situations that we have absolutely no control over; what will happen when she calls us back, where we will be moving once we get that dream job, when will he finally get over that hump and make it out of the ICU, or how we will celebrate once the Jazz finally win the NBA title. In our minds, we create detailed story lines for how the events will play out once that hypothetical bridge is crossed. We begin elaborating on the reactions to the actions; actions that 83% of the time don't actually go our way.

Funny how messed up our perspective is about how we think life is supposed to work isn't it?

How we think things will turn out and how they actually do unfold rarely coincide. She calls the other guy instead. The boss hired someone else. His diabetes took over and he decided to kick the bucket. Jerry Sloan retired and they'll be in the lottery for the next five to ten years. All of these victorious scenarios that we had in our minds never actually happened, and immediately we are dropped to an even lower level of despondency.

This is not a swan song post about how gloomy all of our lives will be once we realize that the years ahead for all of us are going to suck. Because life isn't like that. It is also not some type of spiritual uplifting post that will inspire all of you to go do something motivating.

John Doe: "I'm going to learn origami."

Jane Doe: "I will start a quilting company."

Courtney Adams: "I'm going to go synchronized swimming."

No you're not.

Life is all about living in the moment, as those hedonistic philosophers from eons past have hinted at. And yes, believe it or not, I did learn something in that waste of a class. And really kids, the point of this entire blogpost is that life is too short to set yourself up for illusions that more than likely will never happen. Expecting an inconceivable outcome will only cripple you from enjoying some of the most unplanned and exciting things that sometimes sweep right past you.

And that's Jenga.

Put Some Clothes On

Isn’t it beautiful outside? I l-word this time of year. I l-word the weather. I sarcastically l-word how the temperature doesn’t dip below 90 anymore. I l-word playing sand volleyball in nothing but a pair of shorts. I l-word how it is always warm no matter what time of day it is. There is one thing, however, that I don’t l-word about this time of year.

Girls wearing slutty clothing.

Shocking, you might say? That I as a man would betray my physical lusts and ambitions for a blogpost? No, I think it is absolutely nauseating that girls all over wear, or rather don’t wear the clothes that they do.

Even more nauseating is how much traffic this post will see due to the photo of three neon X's at the top of this page.

Yes, we are that messed up.

To walk in to work on a Friday morning and see a girl in the lobby wearing a little less than a headband, a paper towel and a shoelace makes me want to vomit in disgust. Why she thinks that dressing like that is appropriate is beyond me. What makes it even worse is the fact that some girls don’t have the Kim Kardashian-like body to wear those types of tissue…er, I mean clothing. When the piece of thong underwear is clinging for dear life at the stitches that hold it together all while being practically spray-painted on to a girl’s body, you know something is wrong.

Regardless of whether she’s a supermodel or a supersize, it’s an appalling idea that girls think they have to display massive amounts of skin, and sometimes parts of usually never seen body parts as well for an overload of male attention. Whether she’s got the body of J-Lo or a rhino, neither one is appealing.

I don’t know what goes through a girl’s mind when she thinks that wearing that type of clothing is appropriate. Does she think that if she wears the costume of a paid sex servant from Las Vegas, she will get treated with esteem and dignity? What kind of men are these girls looking to attract? Ones that treat her with respect and think of her in a queenly manner? No, the only thoughts going through the type of guys she is baiting are how quickly they can get the band-aid she’s wearing off her chest on the way to bed.

Yes, the world is that classy of a place.

Am I the only guy that sees this as a problem? The fact that more and more girls think it is fitting to walk around wearing a piece of string and a gum wrapper is just sickening. Where have our morals gone? I wonder if women would find it attractive for men to dress the same way that they do. How attractive would it be for a 350-pound behemoth to wear a tank top and tighty-whities revealing a hefty beer belly and horrendous plumbers crack? That’s how it is for men.

You may think it is something that we want to see but it isn’t. For instance, when I see a girl wearing almost nothing at all, I don’t think, “man she looks hot.” I think “man that girl dresses like a whore and doesn’t respect herself.” When girls wear those types of immodest clothing, men can see how little values they have. Believe me women, it’s not just about your physical nature, there is a little more to dating a girl than how good she looks in a two-piece.

I don’t want to see it anymore. It’s a pathetic attempt at a provocative temptation for all men out there. And I think I speak for quite a few others who would ask for with the increased temperatures, also an increase in clothing items being worn. I’m tired of looking at exposed midriffs, uncovered derierre’s, and barely covered breasts all over campus. It’s ridiculous. Put some clothes on for everyone’s sake.

I Killed a Dragon

Today's blogpost kids, is a retelling of a story that happened this last week in the confused culture that I am a part of in Southern Utah.

It is also brought to you by the letter G.

For full effect, download "Trogdor" by Strongbad and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Planted in church this past Sunday, the group of men that I was sitting with was asked to be participants of a "getting-to-know-you" activity. Rather than sing a unified excerpt from the noteworthy musical "The King and I", we all were asked to go around the room, tell everyone what our name was, and what was the coolest thing that we had done this past week.

Cue the most random antisocial answers ever compiled.

For the record, their names have been completely deleted for reasons of liability and respect.

"Hi, my name is _____________, and I uh, I leveled up on World of Warcraft."

"Hey there, my name is _____________, and the coolest thing that I did was finish season three of Lost."

"Sup guys, my name is _____________, and I, well I pulled out my old PS2 and beat Kingdom Hearts over the course of about five hours or so."

For the record, two out of the first three responses were in reference to the video gaming culture, of which I have no personal understanding. I would also like to note that this seemed to be the pattern for the remainder of the statements made. On average, 83% of the given answers had something to do with a form of gaming. (i.e. Nintendo, Role Playing, Tic-Tac-Toe, etc. etc.)

There were also some very distinct answers that provoked head spinning and glazed over eyes of jealousy.

"Hi, I'm _____________, and I actually went out and talked to a girl for a little while. I think I might ask her out on a date in the next couple of weeks."

The carnal nature inside of me wanted to rip his anti-dating policy to shreds, but you know what, props to this kid. I hope things work out with him and whoever he met at the local Renaissance fair like he said he did. He really deserves a maiden who can joust.

Coming to my row, the elderly gentleman in front of me broke the boundaries of digital motivation by violently stating how his accomplishment was far greater than anyone else's in there.

"My name is _____________, and I went and bought a brand new Ruger 9mm pistol. Brand new, and I got an amazing deal for it down in Vegas. Killer deal I tell ya, and I'm gonna put this thing to use in the fall for sure."

Cue confused reaction of ooh's and aah's from the gaming group surrounding him. I think it was due to the fact that they were trying to comprehend what an actual weapon was like, possibly similar to the ones that they wielded in XBox live tournaments of Halo 3.

"Think ya can top that?" He said spitefully, turning to me.

Now I hadn't really devoted any thought process into what my introduction was going to be. After all, I had no reason to impress these folks, nor did I have any similar affiliation with any magical character in the recent release of Skyrim. Add to the fact that for me to state how I had completed a sprint triathlon a mere 24 hours earlier, would only seem egotistically imposing on everyone else, as well as physically degrading on their athletic abilities. I know I can be somewhat insensitive at times, but I'm not that big of a jerk.

And so, with my creative juices flowing, I bowed my head and delivered a kick to the confidence level of the man in front of me.

"Hey guys, my name is Brock, and I killed a dragon."

Cue moment of awesome silence. Purely awesome silence I tell you.

"Wait...you did what?" A random voice called out.

"I, killed a dragon." I repeated.

"You're making this up, right?" Another outburst.

"No, I'm not." I said. "Her name was Angie. It was a tough task, but I killed her."

The group started chuckling as they misinterpreted the feminine naming of my trophy.

"Oh, so you mean like, you hooked up with a girl named Angie." One of them said. "I see what you're getting at."

"No, that's not it." I responded. "I woke up yesterday morning, packed up my sword, drove out to Pine Valley, hiked up the mountain, and slayed a dragon. True story."

Cue ever-increasing silence of confused perception.

"So, you're not talking about D&D then?" One of them asked.

"What's that?" I replied.

Cue even longer pause.

"Alright then, he's uh, Brock, and he...killed a dragon. Who's next?"

Yes, this may in fact be one of the most random stories/blogposts that I will ever publish on this blog. Wait a minute, what am I talking about? That's the actual name of my blog in the first place. This whole thing is oozing with randomness, never mind. I also am not going to throw into the mix about how we all should be looking to slay the figurative dragons in our lives that stand in our way. Come on now, I'm never that pathetic and cheesy. You know this.

All I am saying is that this has been one of the best weeks of my life. And it will always be like this because I want it to be. My name is Brock and I killed a dragon.

What the heck did you do this week?

90 Minutes of Hell

Am I crazy? Well that depends on who you ask.

Do I sometimes attempt screwball adventures just for the sake of living out my own childhood fantasies? Only on Thursdays.

Have I recently checked another item off of my “Things I need to do before I’m 30” bucket list? You bet your left ovary I have.

This morning at the blasphemous hour of 4:40 am, some possessed demon rolled out of my Queen-sized bed, got in my car, drove all the way out to Snow Canyon High School and decided that today, he was going to complete a triathlon.

Wait, let me back up. Two months ago, the Rhinestone Cowboy came to work and challenged the masculinity of the guys in my office by daring us all to sign up for the Utah Summer Games sprint triathlon. Luring us in by flaunting all of the potential perks that we would be entitled to. Perks like a disciplined attitude for consistent workouts, and a well-conditioned physique that would make Usher jealous. Nowhere in the contract did it say anything about members of the opposite sex being enticed by our greatness.

Still waiting on that.

For full effect, download “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Fast forward back to early this morning just as the sun was making its way over the butt crack of the mountains surrounding Gunlock reservoir, and myself, the Rhinestone Cowboy, and the Glee President were treading water waiting for the horn to sound, dispatching us to the 750-meter swim in choppy water right around the high-50’s.

Again, I do realize that I am crazy.

See, in a triathlon, the benchmark reassurance that makes things a bit easier is recognizing that everyone else out there in the water with you is just as crazy as you are. They too, woke up when the rooster was still hitting the snooze button so that they could do a few warm-up stretches. They in turn, are hoping for that physical and emotional gratification that will overwhelm them when their last step is taken over the finish line.

Once the horn sounds, it’s every man for himself. And that’s exactly the way it was. There were elbows flying, people kicking each other, open-handed slaps to the back of people’s heads on the down stroke. It’s complete pandemonium for the first 100 meters. An aquatic brouhaha. A Rage Against the Machine concert under water. And so we swam. For 750 meters. Just under half a mile. With canoes and kayaks making sure that no one was too far off path, we kept going. But that’s just the first stage.

I know. I’m crazy.

The second part was the 15-mile bike ride from Gunlock reservoir to Snow Canyon High School. Not bad considering a great bulk of it was downhill. I was feeling pretty confident in myself until a 14-year old passed me by about halfway.

Megatron Adolescent: “Don’t get discouraged sir, it’s my 10th triathlon.”

Oh, it’s not a big deal. I actually was expecting to be morally embarrassed by someone who legitimately has a Justin Bieber playlist on his iPod. But then again, come to think about it, I think the guys in my office have one of those too. The Biebster does motivate the Rhinestone Cowboy to push himself a little bit harder.

Sadly, my deranged brain did just refer to him as the Biebster.

One would think after an effort like that we could all kick back in a hot tub and have a Kneaders French Toast buffet personally delivered to us. One would think. Instead, we all decided to strap a pair of shoes onto our ever-cramping legs made of Raspberry Jell-O and run a 5K. Please, hold back your derogatory text messages about the fruitcake dome sitting on the top of my neck that thinks choices like this are for the better.

They’re not.

3.2 miles later, everyone stumbled in at their own pace. Some at ridiculously fast Olympic speeds, others at a brisk walk from start to finish. No matter how fast you went, you were cheered on by everyone in the stadium, including the finished participants, and were overloaded with medals, Gatorade showers, and Bomb Pops, meanwhile certain teams got together at midfield, held hands and sang Kum-Ba-Yah. Again, going back to what I mentioned earlier, and what I will add to the rules of Brocktrine, everyone is crazy who does a triathlon.

I will admit it was personally gratifying. It’s not something that I’m going to brag about to the rest of the conceited Facebook world by posting in a status or tweet though. Come on you know me, I use blogposts for that kind of gratification. Honestly though, I did feel like we accomplished something great. And as the Mrs. Glee President focused her camera on the three of us, I will say that this has been some of the best male bonding I’ve had in a long time. And something I’m sure all of us will cherish, and continue to build upon in years to come.

Whether or not my legs will feel the same way tomorrow about all of this? Now that’s a whole different story.

Letters of Total B.S.

I wrote a letter of recommendation for a friend this morning. Boy, am I full of crap.

Let me rephrase that. I wrote a letter of recommendation for a friend this morning. Boy was it a waste of time filled with exaggerated gibberish and five-syllable words.

But then again, aren’t they all like that?

For full effect, download “Would I Lie To You” by the Eurythmics and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Let me clearly point out that the person who I wrote the letter for is a very cherished individual, and someone who I value and respect immensely. But she is just one of thousands of Americans caught up every day in the entangled labyrinth found in employment offices all throughout the entire country. And the sad thing is that every single one of us at some point in our lives has been, or will be, a victim of this fraudulent form of personal portrayal.

For example, when writing a letter of recommendation, filling out a job application, or writing a shortened essay on work experience, we all are over-thinking the possible exaggerations that we can detail into how good we are at what we do.

Self: “Wait, good? Good doesn’t sound nearly as fancy as commendable, excellent, exceptional, favorable, first-rate, honorable, marvelous, pleasing, reputable, satisfying, shipshape, splendid, stupendous, super, super-eminent, super-excellent, super-good, super-favorable, superb, tip-top, valuable, or wonderful. I’ll use one of those ones.”

For the record, half of the adjectives used in this blogpost were found by monopolizing www.thesaurus.com. How else am I supposed to please you as a reader?

Self: “Recherché? That sounds good. I have no idea what it means, but I’m betting my potential employer will be impressed if I use that one.”

And there I sat, writing some of the most decorated paragraphs of praise that I have come up with in a long, long time. My words were like French poetry being read while the hiring committee sucked back on delicate chocolate pudding and were entranced by the grammatical fragrance that I lured them into, all while giving a summary of her work ethic and tough as nails leadership skills.

Yes, I am that talented at formulating a gold-plated, butt-kissing cover letter.

You see, when someone is hiring another person, they don’t just want someone who is good. They don’t want someone who is simple. They want some of the most articulate vocabulary ever created to describe who you are. They want the best of the best. The cream of the crème de la crème de la crop. They want someone who could on paper, name reasons why The Most Interesting Man in the World came to them for advice.

Barney Stinson: “Possimpible. Dynamism. Linketivity. Connectitude. Transformitation.”

We all talk a big talk, but can we back it up once the handshakes have happened and we are tossed over that new parking sticker? You dang well better back it up. I know that the girl I wrote for today can, despite every flattering word I put down about her. And even though I have a boastful arrogance exhaling out of my own keyboard, there’s nothing I put down on an application that isn’t 100% accurate. Can you say the same?

Self: “Visitivity. Yeah, that sounds awesome!”

You Can't Cheat Death

A plane crashed in the desert a few weeks ago, killing four local young men who at the time might have been at the peak of their own lives. These four great men were praised and honored at funerals, in memorial services, at personal vigils, and most importantly, through Facebook status updates.

Yes, we do in fact live in a conceited, self-praising world in which everyone wants you to know about their own pain. Especially the pain that comes from a postmortem tattoo draped over your torso conveying the image of an honorable acclamation to the rest of your friends liking and commenting on your freshly posted photos.

It was a sad, sad day indeed. One that nobody wishes that they could have back.

A few days after this, amidst all of the commotion and last rite tweets, a great friend and I were having a conversation about the sickening plague of social media that has now become the world in which we live in, and is a tool for which the death of a loved one can be exploited in attempts of receiving attention for the grief and sorrow that comes from such a negative event.

"See, your perspective is a little bit different than mine about death." He said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, you have had a more intimate relationship with death itself. You have lost loved ones, you know what it's like, you've experienced it. As for me, I've never really had someone who I have been close to actually die. I'm kinda fortunate in that regard."

He did have a point. And as two-faced as this may sound with me referencing a conversation that I had with someone else recognizing trials and misfortunes in my own life, I only use this to set the stage for the epiphany that bubbled out of our discussion while we sucked back on shot glasses filled with uncorrupted drops of diet Mt. Dew.

The thought-provoking cue that followed his last sentence was this: My own relationship with death isn't unique, it isn't special, it isn't something that only I am going to be able to understand. It is the same feeling that every single person will experience at some point in this puny existence. The reasoning behind this is that everybody dies. And sooner or later, we are all going to have to man up and face the fat lady as she's warming up to the orchestrated grand finale.

Sad, I know. But again, that's just what life is all about.

And death.

Everybody dies. And as depressing and half-empty that this blogpost is sounding like, it is just a simple understanding that every last one of us will some day lose another person that we love. Whether it's by lung cancer, old age, a brain aneurysm, or a controlled shotgun blast to the forehead, everybody dies. That's just all part of these immeasurable circumstances that we all agreed to be apart of.

How you handle that sour hand of cards that you will inevitably be dealt, well, that's your own business. At times you may in fact feel the need to get into a one-sided screaming match with whatever kind of big man upstairs that you are portraying in your mind. You might have a mental and logical breakdown, going on a late-night drinking binge to Las Vegas not taking into consideration the consequences that an underage call girl could have on the rest of your world. You could dramatically throw out pleas for consideration from the remainder of the vainglorious Facebook friends that you so lovingly cherish.

Or, you could just move on, face the facts that this is just another step in the colossal pathway of life, man up, and focus on how you handle what ever will happen next.

Your call.

Community Fighter II

If my favorite video game as a kid mated up with my favorite television show as an adult, they would have one of the greatest things ever invented.

Pirating Music-Old School

Remember the days when we all used to be active pirates of the music industry?

You do know what I’m talking about, and no, I’m not referring to Napster.

For full effect, download any given song that was produced in the early 1990’s, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. More than likely Keith Tronic will be able to tell you exactly who it is. He is that uncanny.

Take a moment to stroll back down memory lane and reminisce about all of the music that we all used to get illegally. Again, this was way before a thing such as Limewire was engineered into our dishonest transgressions. I’m talking about something that we all did even before Windows 95 was even released. Was there ever such a time? Of course there was back in the day.

Do you remember sitting next to your family’s radio on a Thursday night, with a freshly unpackaged Memorex blank recording tape in the cassette player. Meanwhile you were adamantly listening to 94.9 zHt, waiting for the song “I Swear” by All for One to come streaming over the airwaves so that you could hit the red record button on the stereo and suddenly have the song to yourself.

And there you would sit, for hours on end listening to the radio, putting in requests, hopeful that they would play one of your favorite songs, so that you could make your own “mixtape” and take it back into your room at night, listening to the songs over and over again, getting the lyrics embedded into your memory bank.

That was us. Before downloading, before pirating sites, heck even before Al Gore invented that thing called the Internet. That was a group of entertained sixth-graders trying to figure out the best solution to getting free music so that we all didn’t have to go out and pay $11.99 for the newest Boyz II Men tape.

And yes, that’s exactly how they used to release music, on tapes.

I kind of miss those days. The days when multimillion-dollar bands like Metallica and Blink-182 weren’t suing the pants off of elementary-age kids for pushing the record button on their home radio when one of their songs came on. Those were the days when it was absolutely alright to do something dishonest, unethical, blatantly illegal, and your parents just smiled and remembered the shining moments that they had in a ’74 Pinto and an 8-track.

Man, I miss being a kid.

Why Do We Like This Guy?

I’m sitting here on a Sunday afternoon cheering on an adulterer to win a golf tournament.

Why am I doing this? Good question. Myself, and the rest of the sports world has not been able to figure out why we still like this guy. By the way, the curse word who I am referring to is the infamous Tiger Woods.

For full effect, download “You’re a Jerk” by the New Boyz, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Honestly, what is there to like about this guy at all? You tell me. Because I just watched the butthole drain a birdie on 16, got a dose of the warm fuzzies, and I still can’t figure out what there is to like about him.

Is it the fact that he’s an underdog? Are you kidding me? Absolutely not! The guy has won 72 golf tournaments in the history of his career. 14 of those are major championships. To put things in a much more simpler perspective, when he enters any tournament, he has a 34% chance of winning the whole thing, that’s how successful that he has been. Yeah, he has no shot at the underdog card.

Maybe it’s the fact that we look at him and see a man who we all want to be like. I’m sure that could contribute to our secret Tiger Woods fan club. Well, no, hold on a second, this guy did cheat on his wife for years on end, who by the way was hotter than Giselle and J-Lo put together. A guy who may in fact have put Hugh Hefner to shame with all of the one-night lady friends he had scattered across the country. This is a man who perhaps wasn’t taught the definition of morals by his parents. Well, that’s probably not why we like him so much.

Could it be his personality then? I mean, everyone makes mistakes. We can still L-word them in spite of those errors, just for their genuine character right?

No. Not this guy.

Did anyone else watch the spoon-fed, robotically-forced apology that he stammered for 20 minutes at a nationally televised press conference? You would think that Mussolini had more heart than he did. He never smiles unless he’s winning a tournament. He goes on cursing rants if he hits a bad shot into the bunker. Nobody likes to play with him, not Phil Mickleson, not Jim Furyk, not even Mr. Rogers would have an enjoyable afternoon teeing off with this overpriced, self-absorbed creature who more than likely would beat up a small kitten with his putter if he had the chance.

Is there anything about him that we should like? I cannot figure this conundrum out. He’s mean, he’s arrogant, he’s disrespectful, he’s dishonest, I can’t think of a single reason why we should like him. Is it because he’s ridiculously good at the game of golf, and someone who we all wish that we were? Yeah, that’s probably it.

No matter why we all should hate his guts, the guy just hit another birdie on 18 to wrap this tourney up, and I am still ecstatic that he pulled another win out of his pocket. Maybe I want him to just be an outstanding citizen, to be an all-around great person and role model for generations to come, someone who in the future my own firstborn son can cheer on in years to come.

Whatever it is, I don’t think either one of those things are going to happen anytime soon.