Well, the Skins Game is over and thank heaven for that.
I have to admit I’m not sure about the new format, but then again, I didn’t even like the old one. Or maybe it’s just the participants, I don’t know, but it’s all downhill from here. I remember writing about this a couple of years ago, but I’m working on the principle that most of you don’t remember what I wrote a couple of weeks ago, and therefore I’m going with it again. A more interesting Skins game would be between four suckers that really needed the money. Norman needed another million like I needed another three-year contract with GOLF MAGAZINE, but we both got what we didn’t need.
What none of us needs is more Silly Season golf. There should be a federal law against televising golf in the off-season, like shooting quail in August. Last week was the Father/Son Challenge, for God’s sake. In my house, that means my nine-year-old’s math homework, not members of the Lucky Sperm Club hacking it around with their incontinent parents. For a start, where are all the daughters? I mean, if we’re going to have to suffer this kind of stale off-season queso, it should at least have a little entertainment value. The regular season is like reality TV, so the off-season should be at least as silly as your average daytime soap. Or wrestling.
How about the Vicious Ex-Wife vs. Current Topless Dancer Girlfriend Challenge? A few of those women who spent most of their lives dutifully trudging after their husbands — sitting in crappy motels, trying to get four-footer-induced skid marks out of threadbare boxers, or doing homework, wiping runny noses and arguing about bedtime, now find themselves replaced by newer, more pneumatic models since Dad finally made it to the Grateful Nearly Dead Tour and is making real cash. Ooh, you know there is some righteous indignation out there, and that makes for good TV.
Of course, not every male professional golfer’s ex-wife has been callously tossed aside in favor of fresher meat, and there are two sides to every story. But the other side is likely to be boring and involve some tanned and buff twenty-something closet florist with a rose clenched between his teeth, in hiking boots and a one-piece spandex jumpsuit unzipped to the scrotum. Anyone who is interested in that side of the story is reading the wrong magazine.
First, the ex-husband would have to caddy for the new model. The ex-wife could use her attorney, and, wait a minute, maybe she could use zipper-boyÃ‚Ã‚Å Anyway, there should be a very public weigh-in, so we can generate the maximum amount of animosity. (I don’t know how we’re going to keep that human toilet-brush Don King out of this picture.)
Of course, everyone should be armed. Nine-millimeter, rocket launcher, whatever. Maybe we could have the ex-wife of one of the players who had a really successful regular tour career in here. You know, some bitter witch with millions who’s had nothing better to do for years but eat Twinkies and watch CNN. Someone who, if they lose a couple of holes early, can afford to call in air support.
Wait, this is too good for the network. It should be pay-per-view and there should be a mediator behind every green, dressed in a big purple Barney suit so that every participant would have somebody to kick the crap out of on the way to the next tee. Hey, these people need some kind of therapy.
It has everything. From the classic cliche of the pro showing the leggy blonde how to hold the club to the ex-wife committing a brutal double homicide with a sand wedge, only to find out that her new love has fallen for the guy with the hairless Chihuahua who did the window treatments in the ladies locker room. It could be the lead-in to one of those like-life-isn’t-crappy-enough-for most-people-already court room dramas.
Alternatively, you could have been watching the Father/Son Challenge.