I was on the city golf course again, playing with myself. I woke up at 1:30 AM, because I accidentally fell asleep at 5 or 6 PM the previous afternoon—I can’t be sure of the time. Perhaps, I have a sleep disorder—there are worse things. I love to sleep, so I will be like kids with ADHD who say they can’t focus on their homework. Actually, the students with ADHD should be considered normal; it’s the rest of us who learned to kill our lives at jobs, just like the homework we used to do, that should be considered abnormal. I thought it would have no bearing on my life, but unfortunately, it did. That’s why people go to college—so they can kill themselves slowly.

There I was playing with myself—wait, I said that already. It was early morning, and because I got up so early, I did all the things I normally do in the morning (coffee, shit, write, eat, write), and it wasn’t quite 6 o’clock. I decided to play golf. But wait, I had to shit again, and I ran out of toilet paper, so I ran across the street to get some more, and when I got back, I decided to play chess online with a guy from Australia. He had a high rating and I beat him by trading my rook for checkmate. Oh, I was already having a great lucky day! It wasn’t even 6 o’clock.

So, I was on the golf course playing with myself. Oh my god; why do I keep repeating myself? I had the chance to get my thoughts in order. I used to think I loved to play golf, but now I realize I hate the game; I just love to think.

As I played, I got better and better; strange; usually, I get worse and worse. I was having one of those days where I was figuring things out—the economics of life. I thought about everything. How I was going to make enough money so I would never need to submit to authority again. The answers would come. My friend was getting married. He left for Mexico, yesterday. And with my friend gone, I could do some serious thinking.

Money was the biggest problem. I could find work, but beating the system was another matter. I needed to get paid while I slept. I was young now, but when I got older, I wouldn’t want to work. I walked by the houses on the golf course. They all looked the same. And the people who sat on their porches, looked the same. They were old and retired, and they wore golf clothes, even though they weren’t playing golf. I wouldn’t put it past one of them to say…

“Look at me, young man. If you do everything right, you can be just like me. I have five grand kids, and I play golf here, every day. I planned my whole life out, fifty years ago, and I got through all the years without any surprises.”

It made me want to pull out a gun and shoot the man or woman who said that, but it was only an imaginary person, and I didn’t have a gun, thank god. So, I kept playing golf, and I played pretty fast. I passed a couple groups, and they waved me on through. When I was forced to wait, I read a book. It was making me laugh. Bukowski has more influence on me than all my friends and my family combined. I told an English teacher this once, and he said, “You don’t seem at all like Bukowski. In fact, you look more like a Mormon.” Maybe conservatives have to read people like Bukowski so they can keep being conservative. We have to let a little out, somehow. If I couldn’t do that, I would probably scream the things that are in my head when I’m at work, and get fired. The thought of it, is a pleasant one, but only because it’s a thought.

When I finished hole number 11, I was even par, but I knew I had lied to myself at least a couple of times on the golf course. On the last green, I gave myself a gimmie, and I think I forgot to count the stroke when I hit it into the woods. I did that a lot, but the balls kept bouncing out. Then I started playing really well. I think it happened right after I talked to the dog on number 12. It was sniffing the grass, and minding its own business. It was a white retriever or white lab or one of those family dogs that sleeps most of the day. If I could be a dog, I would do it, except they have such a short life-span—they probably sleep half their life away. The family had to get rid of their last dog. It was also sweet, but it was a discerning dog. I would pat its head, and it would smile at me. The old-timers and most of the regulars would do the same, and it would smile at them. But this one time, a lady lawyer, patted its head, and it bit her. It didn’t let go, and I heard her screaming, four holes away. It was a spiritual dog, and it knew when it was touched by evil.

The bitch lawyer decided to have it euthanized. She was skin and bones, wearing a pink golf skirt and a checkered sweater. The dog is buried in the front lawn. I don’t know where the family gets their dogs, but they’re special. As I kept playing, I thought about my life. The prospect of marriage was a dangerous one. I lived in Seattle where most of the women wanted to dominate their men. They had tattoos all over their bodies, just like poison dart frogs. I silently thanked God for letting me know they were dangerous. When red touches yellow, you’re a dead fellow? I couldn’t remember what the reptile man told me in elementary school, but it seemed like good advice.

There was this girl in a Thai restaurant who knew my name and brightened up every time she saw me. She knew I must have money and was a bachelor because I ate there twice a week. My friend came with me (this is the friend who went to Mexico) and said, “She wants you, Andy. Why don’t you take her out?”

And I told my friend, “We won’t have anything in common. She doesn’t share my culture.”

“But Andy, you can’t stand Western Women!”

“That’s not true; just Western Women from the West Coast, and there are still some good ones, at least I think; I just haven’t met them yet.”

“If you don’t show interest; she’ll move on to someone else.”

“But man, I can’t date her. If it doesn’t work out, I won’t be able to get my Thai Food here anymore. Plus, my life is perfect. I have a bachelor pad on the third floor, and total peace.”

As I kept playing golf, I thought about how I could make my life more perfect. I was going to be a University Professor. I would have to be extra careful what I said. I would have to keep my distance from women, entirely. If one of them wanted my job, I could just hear the ME-TOO accusation. I had a nightmare last night. I think it came from filling out the sexual harassment paperwork. My second job was already traumatizing me.

I didn’t want to work anymore, but I also wanted to learn how to influence people. What better way, than becoming a University Professor? Most of the students at University were brainwashed anyway. They would be easy to indoctrinate.

I was nearing the end of my round, and I had found a space, in the pace of play, where I was playing with myself again. I launched my driver. The ball vanished into the rain. It was coming down. My polo shirt was soaked. It was a dogleg right. When I turned the corner, there was Dwayne, face down in the mud. Heart Attack? Then I noticed my golf ball. Manslaughter? I looked around. There was nobody but me in the rain. Dwayne was a regular I played with a couple of times. He bragged about outwitting the government. Most of his saving was converted to Bit Coin. Dwayne had a horrible memory, so he kept the encrypted code on his key chain. I felt inside his pockets. There were his keys. I also knew he didn’t have any living relatives. He was a bachelor, like me, all alone in the world. There were worst things to be, like married to a nagging wife, who stole half your stuff, but the culture never told men this, and if a man dared to utter this information, he was shamed mercilessly by men and women. It was horrible to be a single guy after 30. The stigma. But I didn’t care what other people thought. Sometimes I was amused when they tried to make me care.

Bit Coin is untraceable. Dwayne was 88. He lived a good life. I was going to live an even better life. I finished out the last two holes, and transferred his Bit Coin into my account. Now I don’t need to work for a living. Work is the highest value in Western slave society, but it’s all in your head, whether you’re a slave or not. Now I’m not a slave because I have FU money, and I can’t wait to say FU to the boss. One must wait for the proper moment.


5 thoughts on “Personal Economics on the Golf Course

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