The British Open apparently strips back the veneer of my insecurities. I started watching it on the first day of play and it didn’t take long before I started getting sick of listening to how awesome it is.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to play golf in crappy weather. As far as I’m concerned, if it’s an outdoor pursuit and I’m supposed to have fun, freezing my butt off isn’t what I’ve got in mind.

I mean, there stands Tiger Woods, and every time he hits a shot, he puts on hand warmers. Uh, isn’t it July 19? Just because someone invented a game in the area doesn’t mean that’s the best place to play. My brother lives over there. He told me yesterday that it’s rained every day since May. Gee, that sounds nearly as fun as a barium enema.

And they call it The Open Championship, as if that’s the only tournament worth more than a cup of tea. Kiss my arse.

(Oh, and Paul McGinley: General Mills called and said you’re late for the photo shoot for the Lucky Charms box.)

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