Here’s a fun take on that!

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The fucking truth?

Deep in the heart of Georgia, at the legendary Gator Creek Golf Club (home of the only golf course where beer coolers outnumber ball washers), three lifelong hacker golfers sat around their usual picnic table after another round of triple-digit golf. Bubba Ray, Skeeter, and Dale—three fellas who loved the game but had no clue how to play it well—were deep in conversation about the most confusing topic of their lives: the PGA Tour and LIV Golf merger.

“I just don’t get it,” Bubba Ray said, scratching his belly under his camo golf polo. “For two years, they been fightin’ like two raccoons in a dumpster, and now they’re just gonna up and merge? What kinda nonsense is that?”

Skeeter, who had just bought a $700 driver that he used exclusively to hit worm-burners, nodded. “Yeah! Ain’t this the same LIV Tour them PGA boys called evil? They said it was bad for golf, bad for America, bad for—what was it, Dale?”

Dale, the self-proclaimed historian of the group (because he once read a Wikipedia page on Arnold Palmer while waiting for a fishing license), took a thoughtful sip of his Bud Light. “Integrity, Skeeter. They said it was bad for the integrity of the game.”

Bubba Ray huffed. “Well, shoot. If the PGA’s got integrity, then why’d they just take that Saudi money after talkin’ all that trash?”

The table went silent. You could hear the wind whistling through the broken fairway sign that someone had hit with their cart last weekend.

Skeeter finally broke the silence. “You reckon it’s like when me and my ex-wife was suin’ each other over the dog, and then we just got back together ‘cause neither of us wanted to pay the lawyer?”

Bubba Ray’s eyes widened. “Dang. That actually makes sense. You sayin’ the PGA and LIV realized fightin’ was too expensive, so they just got back together for the money?”

Dale let out a low whistle. “Ain’t that somethin’? Golf’s just like our family court system. Expensive, petty, and full of bad decisions.”

They all nodded in agreement and took a deep sip from their beers.

“But here’s what I don’t get,” Skeeter said, shaking his head. “If they wanna ‘grow the game,’ why ain’t they lettin’ us rednecks have a say in it? I got plenty of ideas. Like, instead of four-day tournaments, make ‘em three so we can spend Sunday fishin’. Or let folks shotgun a beer before takin’ a drop.”

Bubba Ray grinned. “What about a rule where if you hit your ball into the water, you gotta go in after it? That’d make golf way more entertainin’.”

Dale snapped his fingers. “Even better—every hole should have a ‘mystery club’ rule. You pull one random club outta your bag and gotta use it, no matter what.”

Skeeter shook his head. “See, that’s why golf ain’t never gonna be truly great. They don’t listen to us, the common man. They’re too busy arguin’ over which billionaires get richer instead of askin’ the people what we really want.”

Bubba Ray leaned back and grinned. “Maybe we should start our own tour.”

Dale chuckled. “The Redneck Golf Tour?”

Skeeter’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! Sponsored by Busch Light, held exclusively at municipal courses, and we got just one rule: If you don’t like the way we play, you ain’t gotta watch!”

The three of them burst out laughing, clinked their beers, and watched as another hacker golfer four-putted from five feet away.

Golf was changing, sure—but at Gator Creek, it would always stay the same.

Yours truly,
Socially Out Of Bounds (SOB)