WHEN j3 WENT PREP...AND GRABBED A GOLF CLUB...

Never will I profess to be great at ANY sport. I've always just been average at everything. Whether basketball, football, teatherball, raquetball, softball, skiing, croquet or swimming. Well, go ahead and add a new sport to that list: GOLF. A sport that normally I've left to the rich folks that drive nice cars and talk alot about football. Not really my scene, but I got thrusted into it by my own doing, really. The company golf tournament came around and this year, instead of driving the beer and beef jerkey cart around all day, I decided to jump in and play. Three fellas from one of our vendors adopted me for the day and, with my grandfather's 30+ year-old clubs in tow, I let loose on La Paloma here in the Yellow.

Well, I managed to do alright--good enough that when Rory came calling today for an opportunity to head out to the driving range, I jumped a the chance. Here I am in my driving range attire. Looking preppy. Hell, almost pretty.

That's as good as my "golf pose" gets. Yeah, the threads were a nice gift or "award," if you will, for winning the "WORST DRESSED GOLFER" at the golf tournament. Not a bad haul at all, I suppose. Guess I look a little better than I did in my saggy khakis, raggedy ol' shirt, black socks and fuzzy Kangol. I honestly don't know what golfers dress like, but I suppose this is it. Thanks to Becca and Chrissy for looking out for me. Now, I'm the best looking golfer out there. At least when it comes to attire. My swing still needs some work. Of course, I like to think that I was not the "WORST DRESSED GOLFER" but the "BEST DRESSED BUSBOY". Unfortunately for me, I was actually golfing and not bussing tables.

So we head out to the low-stakes par-3 course south of town so I could pound on some balls. I take only one club with me. Like a warrior going to battle armed with only a dull shank. Caught a few laughs there.

I saddle up on my spot along the row of golfers, put down my basket of balls and start going to town (pause). Up walks an older fella and I see him start watching me. Now, I'll go ahead and say this, I'm a sport, but I do it more for fun. And my golf game is more a study in monkey-see/monkey-do-do imitation. No more, no less. I watch and I try. I see his feet facing me under the brim of my hat and I'm thinking, "This cat's just standing there watchin' me."

And then I hear it.

"You guys are just working too hard," as he bends over and starts pulling his equipment out. "You swing too hard. Lighten up and take it easy. And don't be afraid to turn that upper body."

Yeah.

Dude just walked up and started giving me pointers. Now, I paid for balls not lessons and, secondly, when a dude shows up carrying one wood and a handful of tees and looking at stupid as I do, chances are I'm not taking this game all too seriously. And, no, believe it or not, I'm not trying to go pro at this point so, needless to say, this fella's free lesson is not really something I'm interested in. In fact, the only thing I'm interested in is watching him swallow a few balls and shutting up.

But he didn't. He just kept talking. I keep my head down--a practice that saved him from getting killed. Because the more this cat talked, the worse my drives became. After a while, I'm just swinging to get rid of them so I could get out of there without any more criticism. Rory's a sport. He listened to the dude, even though I know Rory wasn't really entertained by his tips, but he listened and even thanked him before we left.

Again, I'm not against tips, but really only when I ask. Unsolicited pointers only make more of a sport of it than I'm really interested in making it. So, for the par-3 pro, wherever you are, you get a shakeface compliments of our boy Mayhem.

Got jury duty tomorrow. Hopefully I get picked. I swear they're always profiling me incorrectly. Happy Wednesday to you and yours. If you haven't voted for your favorite dog yet, please see below.