Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.
Don’t make any sudden movements, or I will hurl. That’s how sick I am right now. My body wants to throw up, and all it needs is the slightest visual excitement to cause it. The Final Four is going on right now, but I’m watching golf instead, because it’s the only thing slow enough to keep my lunch in my stomach.
I tried to watch basketball, but I’m at a stage of sickness where if someone on TV runs, jumps, or even speaks above a whisper, I will hurl a quantity of vomit that rivals the floods in Fargo. Yet if I don’t watch TV, I will think about hurling, which will also cause me to hurl. It’s only 11am, and I’m trapped. All I can do for the rest of the day is watch golf on TV until it’s time to go to sleep, and then hope that I don’t unknowingly hurl all over myself before I wake up again.
If I had cable TV, I might be able to find an old black and white movie where the characters do nothing but talk, but I can’t afford cable. So I’m forced to watch The Arnold Palmer Invitational, which is the entertainment equivalent of watching your grandmother sew a pair of mittens from start to finish. But even your grandmother wouldn’t pair ugly Nike shirts with business pants.
I hate golf. My parents call me once every few weeks to keep in touch, and whenever we talk on a Sunday my dad will ask me if I’m watching golf. It’s a mean trick. He knows I’m not, and the minute I say no, he’ll launch into a full description of whatever boring golf tournament is on TV.
“Well, Tiger is catching up . . .”
“Stop it! I hate golf!”
“He wasn’t doing so hot earlier, but now he’s . . .”
“I hate this! Stop describing it! You always do this!”
What’s the point of watching golf? Tiger Woods could hit a 700-yard drive, and it would still look the same as a 200-yard one on TV. I’ll admit that the green grass, calm blue skies, and quiet announcers are great at fighting off hurl, but why would anyone in good health watch golf? It’s four hours of people with silly names like Sean O’Hair and Matthew Goggin hanging out on a very nice lawn. The only person I’ve heard of in the entire PGA is Tiger Woods, and he’s wearing a pink shirt, so I refuse to root for him.
Did you know 79-year-old Arnold Palmer isn’t even playing in his own invitational? What a dick.
Oh God. I almost hurled. They cut to a golfer named Brian Gay, and I laughed a little. The involuntary movement almost caused me to barf. I need to be more careful in the future. If there’s anything worse than watching golf for four hours to keep from barfing, it’s doing so and then puking anyway.
Some people say I should just throw up and get it over with. Screw that. It’s a matter of pride. If I hug a toilet, then the virus wins. It’s like waiting until the last possible day to pay your taxes. You know the government will win, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to pay them earlier than necessary.
Some guy named Zach Johnson just spent four minutes practicing his stance while the announcers discussed how pleasant he is in person. Can one of you faithful readers please kill me? This is TV for old people with easily hurt feelings. I can’t take this crap anymore.
Oh God. They cut to a car commercial showing a view from inside a fast-moving vehicle. It’s making me woozy. I was able to close my eyes in time to keep from hurling, but I’m going to get an old cooking pan and place it next to the couch just in case this happens again.
Have you ever heard someone throw up into an old cooking pan? It echoes a little.
Oh God. They just played a Howie Long truck commercial. It wasn’t particularly fast-moving, but Howie Long’s haircut makes me want to puke even when I’m not ill.
The TV listings say this golf tournament was supposed to be over at 3pm, but it’s now 4pm and it hasn’t stopped. I’m glad. When this ends, my only chance for vomit freedom will be to go online and watch golf clips, or go to the video store and rent “Dorf on Golf” or various Leslie Nielsen golf instructional videos.
Oh God. Now there’s a commercial for grilled cheese on TV. It’s showing kids pulling apart the two halves of a sandwich, with the gooey cheese stretching and oozing. This is too much. I need to . . . Can you hold on for a second? Excuse me.
(The sound of a man hurling into an old cooking pan is heard in the background, followed by a long sigh)