Okay, so here is the deal. I know you can look like John Daly and win golf tournaments.
Shaq, in his heyday, weighed more than Refrigerator Perry, who was in the correct sport to weigh that much, almost. And that drunken, gifted fat-ass Babe Ruth was amazing.
But those are the exceptions. They did not have 52-inch HD televisions in Ruth’s day, thank God.
Sports are for spectators.
If a man sinks a hole-in-one alone in the forest, does it count? No.
I am watching sports to be entertained, period.
One of the reasons I love to watch athletes is that besides their talents, they are awesome physical specimens to behold. Even though Phil Mickelson seems to be a nice guy and a pretty good golfer who can eke out a win when Tiger’s home with the family rehabbing his knee. He is got man boobs.
Mickelson is not even really fat. He just suffers from male pattern boobness.
Guybags. Senor snubes. Mister Titster. He-man Hooters. Boyzoombas. Cock ‘n Knockers. Mancans. Chesticles with Testicles. Papa Tatas. Mickelson Mogambos.
Now as snarky as this sounds, I am not even saying his daddy dumplings turn me off.
I am just saying that when Mickelson strides down the fairway, he looks like a breasty shift manager at the local Best Buy who cannot say "no" to doughnuts in the break room, not a kick ass world class athlete.
Does it matter?
It does to me.
Because a golf game lasts three long precious hours in my crazy busy life. If I am going to invest that long on the sofa, I want to feel like Superman is showing me what he is got, not my doughy work buddy in the next cubicle.
C’mon back, Tiger. And bring your guns.