I really don’t understand why I have to write this column at this time of year. It’s late November or early December, a time when playing golf should be both out-of-season and a federal offense. Game wardens should patrol deserted Florida and Arizona golf courses, noting the number of quail or other shootable beasties, and writing golfers tickets. Every self-respecting golf writer (at least an endangered species, and possibly extinct) should be at home with his or her family, hiding from other media and the general public, too. But in direct contravention of my own guidelines, I—and I can’t believe I’m going to write this—am now Twittering.
That’s right, the man who once tried to start his own 'antisocial notwork' called AssBook (so he could post a picture of his buttocks and tell anyone who recognized him deliberate lies about his actions and whereabouts or to otherwise bugger off and leave him alone), is now posting inane 'tweets,' about his beagle, that She Who Must Be Obeyed (SWMBO) has taken to using snail slime serum for something even he doesn’t want to know about, and assorted gratuitous, self-promotional crap.
It all started when I was informed that I was on Match.com. That’s right, yours truly, on a dating site, looking for love in all the wrong places. There I was, 'Goodguy,' from Dallas, Texas, with a geeky photo from the 1994 PGA Tour media guide, spewing icky garbage like, 'I’m looking for a woman in the Lewisville area who is interested in boating (which I consider to be prison with an elevated chance of drowning), cooking barbecue (at which I suck), and cats (which I detest).'
First, the name 'Goodguy' is an insult to the assholiness for which I stand, so gloriously windswept and majestic, I can hardly keep my hands off myself. Me? I’d probably go with 'Douchenozzle,' or something similar. And as I explained to SWMBO, I would certainly not be looking for a woman, as I already knew where one was, the irrefutable proof being there was an astoundingly beautiful one glaring at me at that particular moment. Not that she took this seriously for a moment, mind you. My wife knows perfectly well that no other woman on this planet could stand to be with my beagle and me for more than a few seconds. The smell alone is unbearable.
However, the fact that someone could take my name and likeness and use it for a purpose that wasn’t going to get me laid really pissed me off, so I began to wonder. If I knew someone on Match.com (and I don’t), maybe I could get her to make a date with this disingenuous dung-bucket of a man, and instead of her showing up for it, it would be me! That’s brilliant, I thought! I could meet this face-hole ass to ass and find out what his problem was. But then I thought that it was probably safe to assume that anyone who had to resort to the use of my name and image to attract members of the opposite sex would have problems, and maybe my intrusion into his/my own private cyber life would cause the poor, ugly, lonely, stupid and miserable wretch even more unhappiness. But no, that was actually working for me.
And then the absolute worst-case scenario hit me. What if I went through with this, and the guy sitting at the table for two with a yellow rose hanging out of his left nostril was actually me? You know, the old parallel universe theory. I mean, think about it, what would you say to yourself? 'Uh, hullo there. Are you ‘Goodguy?’' Do you just dump yourself there and then, leaving yourself to wallow in self-pity, if in fact by grammatical and social definition you could even call it self-pity? Half-self-pity, maybe. One of me might start drinking again, which would be a disaster for, for…well it couldn’t be good for somebody. Or, maybe it could be…I don’t know. But it gets worse! What if I really, really liked me? Could I possibly be easy enough to end up having a sleazy one-night-stand with myself, and if I did, would that mean that I’m gay? A scene like this would have simultaneously made Sigmund Freud’s pipe go out and his sack fall off, so I decided against it.
And so now I’m Twittering, pretty much just to let people know that if they’re on Match.com and they expect to see me on the other end of this thing, they may be disappointed, or elated, or whatever…either way, it won’t be me. But you never know—it could very well be a 95-pound brunette with a bad attitude and a 1932 E.J. Churchill side-by-side 12-gauge. And if she shows up, good luck with her, pal—that’s all I can say. She’s from Mississippi, and if you do survive, she has one hell of an attorney.