Golf
Slow play, vanity swings, and every foursome holding up the earth.
A pre-shot routine longer than most film trilogies.
This fucking guy takes ten practice swings and tops it 20 yards.
He takes a dozen rehearsals, resets twice, stares down the target, then cold-tops the ball 20 yards and asks if anyone saw that bounce.
It is a Pro V1, not a family heirloom.
This fucking guy will hold up the entire course looking for one ball.
Everyone else knows the ball is gone, but he insists on a full archaeological dig in the woods because maybe this one pine straw patch hides destiny.
He thinks the entire course requested his lake-day playlist.
This fucking guy brought a Bluetooth speaker loud enough for the county.
Nobody minds a little music, but this man has volume levels better suited for a boat parade than the sixth tee box at 8:10 a.m.
He is not scoring. He is authoring fiction.
This fucking guy turns the scorecard into creative writing.
By the time the hole ends, everyone has watched him take seven swings, but he confidently writes down a five and asks who is buying at the turn.
Golf pages work best when the offending move is obvious in one sentence and specific enough that a stranger can picture the whole scene immediately.