Golf is a worthless game, and nothing approximating a sport. It’s croquet with more expensive equipment; it’s hockey without defenders, ice, and with an undersized goal. It’s hurling for sissies. If given the choice between watching an entire golf tournament or being kicked in the balls and then being free to leave, we’d take the Rochambeau happily. Adding twenty bucks to the offer on the golf side adds nothing.

We hate hate hate hate hate hate hate golf.

We also hate it because we remain convinced that without its siren song, Steve Spurrier’s offense would have actually invented, implemented, and perfected every possible offensive scheme in the years between 1990 and 2000 and averaged eighty points a game, instead of merely obliterating most opponents by twenty-eight and only winning one national championship.

Damn whoever sent this to Will Leitch first–but Steve Spurrier just did the only worthwhile thing that’s ever happened in the history of the game, aside from that time Colin Montgomerie raped a chicken in front of a cheering crowd during the U.S. Open.

Steve Spurrier pissed on Augusta National.


Spurrier improves the game of golf by one zillion percent. Golf sucks.