Amen to this thread! I’m 31 years old and more of my friends/colleagues are starting to get into golf. It’s NOT a fuckin’ sport. I’ve had this argument with a pot-bellied, 41-year-old yuppie in my office. It’s a fucking skill game, but NOT a sport. The word “sport” implies athleticism, which golf does not involve. I REFUSE to get involved with ANYTHING to do with that godforsaken excuse for a sport/game and the whole nauseating scene that goes along with it. The fugly pants, the preppy pastel polo shirts, the plaid shit, the khakies, the country clubs, the guys named Mason (no offense to any Masons here) . . . . If I ever, ever, EVER show up anywhere NEAR that whole scene, y’all have my permission to just give me 2 between the eyes and end it for me. It’s tough having to fend off the golfers all the time, being a guy in a white collar job in New York and making a decent income, but I’ll be goddamned if I ever capitulate to THAT shit!
Oh, and truer words have never been spoken than those about the nerdy, hairy guys (usually skinny or skinny-fat) who are pasty white with an undershirt under a POLO shirt! If anti-perspirant ain’t enough for you, too damn bad – it’s a polo shirt, not a dress shirt. You’re NOT supposed to wear an undershirt with it. Suck up the consequences! (Good God)!
Now, I do have a certain amount of respect for those who can complete a marathan – er, I should say, RUN a marathon, NOT walk one. I’m damn sure I wouldn’t have an easy time doing one, so if you’re actually RUNNING it non-stop, that’s impressive. BUT, I don’t see it as making you a T-man (very different thing), as you can run a marathon and still look like the skinny, hairy, pasty-white geek in the polo shirt.
It’s funny how these geeks come up to me, too, and start mentioning their “workouts” or “physical pursuits” because they can see that I work out. It makes me laugh inside because the thing they can’t remotely grasp is that, although both their activities and mine could be broadly categorized under the umbrella of “excercise,” neither activity is even remotely similar to the other, even if they do do some “lifting” of weights.
Their workouts, or activities, whatever you want to call them, involve (usually aerobic) excercise for general health purposes, which is fine, with the general aim of working up a sweat, feeling like they’ve “exercised” today, and making sure their heart rate is kept at a certain level for a certain period of time (hence the geeky, thick stopwatches that some of them sport on their geeky, thin frames. “Ho-oh, I’m up 5 bips, Blaine!”). “Waddya say instead of running we play some squash tomorrow, Blaine?” And there’s nothing wrong with all that – good on 'em for at least keeping in shape.
My workouts aren’t just about “getting some excercise,” as most of the T-men here surely undertand themselves, although they certainly accomplish that goal in spades. My workouts are my time to myself during which I can set the I-pod to the “Workout” playlist, rife with Metallica, Rage, Velvet Revolver, G’n’R, Megadeth or the hardcore flavor of my minute, pop in the ear buds and crank it up to 11. It’s a totally fucking testosterone-driven experience, even if only in my own head (as I try not to act like a complete ass in the gym – if you REALLY need to scream and grunt beyond what’s resonable, get a membership to a zoo). Watching the bar bend in the mirror and the grimace on your own face as Hetfield screams in your ears, “So what, so what, you boring little FUCK!!!”
Knowing that you OWN that room full of weights and (mostly) wannabes, feeling so high on T it wouldn’t matter if a tank burst through the walls and tried to mow you down – it couldn’t. Pretending I don’t hear them when the 3 idiots who’ve been coming there for years but making shit for progress because they cheat their way through everything, work as hard as three-toed tree sloths and make their spotters do all the work for them exclaim under their breath, “Daaaaaamn!” “Motherfucker’s STRONG!” when I’m benching or squatting right next to them, right after they were making more noise than a bunch of asthmatic hyenas caught under a truck tire.
Having the Polo-Shirt & Personal Trainer crowd look at me like I’ve got 6 heads when I perform – my heavens! – deadlifts, and ask their trainers, “What are those things he’s doing? They look really hard!” all the while having the words, “Now MOVE sucka, MOVE!!!” pumped into my ears. Having the big, burly, 320 pound guy say to you on your way out, “I saw you in there. You don’t fool around!” Walking out of there still high enough to tear down a damn oak tree, and having your eardrums ring for a solid half an hour after you’re done, but being okay with that because that means you did it right.
That experience has nothing – NOTHING – to do with the pasty guys who golf and play squash and walk marathons, so I am baffled when they come up to me and start talking about excercising. But not TOO baffled, because I know that they don’t understand, and never will.
Ahhhhh, testosterone is such a WONDERFUL hormone, isn’t it? 