LIV Golf, the spoiled rotten toddler of a tour, is now being weaned off the bottle. They're losing their funding. The players saw the gold and got trapped in the mines.

The endless money was never enough. Bryson DeChambeau demanded more and more until, presumably, Saudi Arabia watched one of his YouTube videos and pulled the plug immediately.

They’re done.

Any startup with unlimited capital is doomed to die on the first day. There are countless “corporate” reasons, but luckily for you, I am not employed by any fake firm.

LIV Golf is now DED Golf.

GOLF IS SUPPOSED TO BE ELITE

LIV Golf’s main talking point was that they wanted to “Grow the Game™️.”

How did they do that? By hiring the biggest and brightest! Such as Alissa Heinerscheid, the former Bud Light executive best known for the Dylan Mulvaney campaign.

That’s not even the worst part.

The league allows shorts. The tournaments have rap music blasting throughout the courses. Playgrounds were built on the premises for children. Neon colors everywhere. And concerts… so many concerts.

So what is the alternative? Here’s a question:

What makes The Masters amazing?

The fact that they’ll send anyone who sends a tweet on the property straight into the gulag forever is a start.

But it’s gorgeous. Exclusive. Traditional. Pimento cheese sandwiches are $1.50. It’s the definition of American excellence, and guess what? The entire world watches it.

No event expands the game more than the Masters, and yet, it breaks every brain-dead boardroom rule there is.

WHO THOUGHT OF THE TEAM NAMES?

Here is a list of the team names the geniuses at LIV, who are getting paid more than entire countries’ GDPs, thought of:

4Aces GC, Cleeks GC, Crushers GC, Fireballs GC, HyFlyers GC, Korean Golf Club, Legion XIII, Majesticks GC, OKGC, RangeGoats GC, Ripper GC, Southern Guards GC, Torque GC

What.

Read those names again.

Again.

I am not sure why they’re losing billions of dollars.

Here’s a better team name I just thought of:

BrokeAndHomeless GC.

PGA TOUR ISN’T INNOCENT EITHER

After all of LIV’s embarrassments, the PGA Tour’s reaction somehow managed to be worse.

Instead of acting like adults and brushing LIV off as a minor nuisance, the Tour went scorched earth and suspended every player who took the money.

That alone made LIV much stronger than it should’ve been.

If the PGA Tour and Rory McIlroy kept their mouths shut, LIV would’ve been finished in less than a year.

Instead, the PGA Tour got nervous and juiced up their own purses and then created an even stupider golf league— called TGL. The indoor golf simulator league that is less interesting than Wii Sports and has even dumber team names.

They legitimized LIV Golf more than anyone ever could. Everybody in the business world has lost their minds.

THE SOLUTION:

The game of golf doesn’t need to be grown. It needs to be guarded.

Where is the class?

Ban the neon. Ban the fake team names. Abolish the teams in general— this isn’t the Ryder Cup.

Make Pants Mandatory Again. Pipe in bird noises and classical music. Put all the money into the courses to make the conditions as pristine as possible.

The bunkers should be filled with sand from the beaches of Normandy. If a player is going to make bogey, he should at least do it on sacred ground.

And, like Augusta, arrest every patron who snaps a photo on their iPhone and send them to their on-site prison.

I am just scratching the surface.

Unlimited money made LIV tasteless. Constraint might accidentally save it.

LIV Golf has a fighting chance now that the allowance has been cut. The USGA’s amateur championships have prestige money can’t buy, and all you get when you win is a nice trophy and a pat on the back.

I can restore the greatness.

Unfortunately for them, my salary is $10,000,000.

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In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and I grew up in a small, quiet, affluent town.

I would walk outside in the morning. Noon. And hear almost nothing. A few birds chirping. A gentle breeze moving through the trees. Maybe a squirrel hopping across a crunchy leaf in search of the next acorn. It was basically the Shire with a country club.

That was my life. It was perfect. It was Eden, before Eve got involved.

At home, if we watched TV, the commercials were always muted. The radio was never on when I rode in the family wagon. During supper, I’d use my “inside voice.”

Everything God made was good.

Then I visited the city.

NOISE NOISE NOISE

I still remember hearing an ambulance for the first time. My ears were on fire. My eyes filled with tears. For one brief moment, I understood the city’s homicide rate.

The sirens were so loud they temporarily turned me blind. There’s no reason they can’t be muted.

I looked around at my fellow citizens to see if they felt the same as I did.

Nope. Happy as clams. They didn’t even hear it. Not sentient.

My blood pressure was higher than the unconscious gentleman next to me on the sidewalk.

That's the part nobody warns you about. It isn't that the city is loud. It's that nobody seems to notice.

The honking. The motorcycle engines. The construction. FaceTiming in public. The drunk women outside restaurants screaming at me to get into their Uber. The loud music at the gym— or any public place. It’s relentless.

THE WORST OFFENDER

No invention has ever captured the spiritual emptiness of the modern world better than the leaf blower. A grown man straps a plastic jet engine to his back so he can move twelve leaves from one side of a driveway to the other.

And the inconsiderate crew member always blasts the engine directly outside my bedroom window at 7:30 a.m., with no apparent regard for my 3:00 tee time.

There was a time when men raked leaves. Quietly. With dignity. A rake made a gentle scraping sound. It was festive. It was spiritual. You could hear the world around you. You could pray. You could dream. You could appreciate the beautiful world you had been born into and savor each precious moment. Not me, obviously. The man I hired.

THE TESLA EXCEPTION

This is why, despite everything, I have developed a newfound respect for Tesla.

I originally wasn’t a Tesla person because the car is basically Big Brother with vegan leather seats. It knows when you drive, where you drive, how fast you drive, and shuts down when you tweet mid-trip.

But at least they’re quiet.

You can’t hear those cars as they glide past. They move like ghosts. Elegant. Sexy. Deceptively fast. The way all technology should be.

I’m bullish on Elon. He should make a Tesla leaf blower next. Silent. App-controlled. Capable of cleaning my yard without disturbing my sleep, my tee time, or my hairline.

That would be a start. Until then, I remain a victim.

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There are warriors. There are astronauts. There are civil rights icons. And there are golfers.

My feet have blisters.

My face is acquiring permanent sun damage.

My back aches from supporting the entire world. And also from maintaining 120-mph swing speeds.

Golf requires strength, stamina, patience, elegance — and being handsome. All qualities star athletes like myself possess.

While ordinary people go to work each morning in climate-controlled offices, I put on my glove and perform unpaid physical labor for hours on end. I do it because it is my duty. Because I am a soldier. I do it for God.

GOOD GOLFER = HOT GIRL

Everyone is envious of the hot girl until you are one.

Nobody talks about the dark side.

The good golfer can't escape the limelight. He has to say hi to everybody everywhere. The valet. The cart-boy (who talks way too much while cleaning your clubs). The head pro (who is mad you don't take lessons from him). The beverage cart-girl, who has chosen to interpret your restraint as rejection. The members. And yes, even the groundskeepers wave to you.

The nonstop love is exhausting, but at least it’s not malicious. And believe me, there is plenty of malice.

There is a seething hatred at every corner. The jealous mid-handicappers who are constantly praying for your downfall while pretending to be your friend.

They call you “buddy” on the first tee, which is essentially the white boy slur. They pretend to look for your ball, then pocket it when they find it. They wear Malbon.

This isn't the UFC. The stakes are real.

SWING SPEED IS A CURSE

Hitting 300-yard tee shots is not a gift. It is a burden.

Nobody can relate to your misery because so few people are capable. Your hands become callused. Your calves seize. You wake up in the morning, unable to move, quietly assessing the catastrophic damage inflicted on your body by the previous day’s range session.

I now understand why women choose breast-reduction surgery. Nobody feels the back pain when the cameras are off.

They do not see the man standing motionless beside his bed, wondering if he can safely bend over to put on a sock.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a member-guest tomorrow, and my tee time is obscenely early.

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Growing up, I never used an alarm. I still don’t.

Alarms are demonic. When you are sound asleep, recovering from the horrors of the day before—a bad lie on 14, losing my Blistex, a girl on the island who turned out to be from West Palm Beach… you need as much time as possible to rejuvenate.

The issue is that the night ends. The day begins no matter how you’re feeling. The sun is coming up and there is nothing you can do about it.

I found myself time and time again forcing myself out of bed at noon to salvage my day. I'd drink 3 lattes, stare directly at the sun, and put Backstreet Boys on at full volume in the shower. Nothing would snap me out of the terminally fatigued state I was in.

Until I discovered the Afternoon Siesta.

A.K.A. the Nap.

I don’t think there is anything more pleasurable than stumbling onto my off-white couch at 4 pm after lunch, collapsing my head onto the cool down-feather pillow, while fully clothed in my pinstriped RL Oxford shirt, Alden loafers still on, and resting for 20 minutes (or 3 hours).

I live for my naps. I dream about my naps. They are the highlight of my day. I will cancel hot dates if they interfere with my nap window (3 to 8 pm). They are the priority.

Ignore the self-help scams. Ignore the type of man who posts reels of himself waking up at 4:45 am to leap into the cold shower, reciting his affirmations in the mirror. This man is a child. This man plays pickleball. He will expire before 50.

A well-rested man is a youthful man. A successful man. A holy man.

Laziness is a psyop. Nobody is naturally lazy. They are just fatigued. There is nothing that causes illness, wrinkles, and sliced tee shots more than being sleepy.

Become your best self. Close your eyes. Dream big. Often, and for hours at a time.

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I’m so tired of hearing about the birthrate. Nonstop attention from Elon. From every conservative influencer. “You need to get married and have a family,” they say.

Ok, that’s fine. But the reality is: the plummeting birthrate is the right-wing version of climate change. It’s a fearmongering hoax.

You can shove any chart you want in my face. It still doesn’t change the fact that the data is cherry-picked and overblown. Also, in my humble opinion, the birthrate needs to go way down.

Fewer people is excellent. America is crammed. We have far too many people clogging up the drive-through lines. All of the country clubs have multiple-year waitlists. The top vacation spots have gotten way too busy. They aren’t remotely fun anymore, even if you’re rich.

Ok, I’m not a total Scrooge. I support more kids for another reason. Having a beautiful wife with multiple beautiful children is the ultimate status symbol. You are making the world sacred. This is what the world needs. Not screaming, crying, iPad-watching, bottle-fed, daycare-attending babies.

Manners. Intelligence. Noble. Trustworthy. MINT.

That is the scarce resource. There are plenty of people being born daily. But are they considerate? Do they add value? Do they follow the MINT doctrine?

The birthrate sounds too clinical. I don’t support it at all. Just pumping babies into the void for no reason whatsoever except to boost the numbers.

That isn’t “Life.” That’s mass production.

Each child is a blessing, but it is our job to make sure they are raised having manners, intelligence, and an impeccable wardrobe. Don't just crank 'em out.

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I am gradually descending into madness. I have been living in exile for months now. The outside world is a distant memory. I don’t even remember what normal food tastes like.

I have been sent to an island deep in the tropics and will be eaten alive if I ever attempt to leave. I am a prisoner.

My days are monotonous. I wake up at the same time every day—noon. I socialize with the local tribe (WASPs). I eat the native cuisine (shrimp cocktails and wedge salads). I use my sticks and attempt to entertain myself on the local terrain. Yes, golf. I am permanently dehydrated from martinis. I have begun talking to Wilson, my Pro V1.

Occasionally, an outsider appears—a West Palm Beacher—so a small group of locals and I immediately terrorize them until they retreat. We call the cops.

There are predators constantly circling the island searching for fresh meat. They’re in Bentley SUVs with their toy poodles.

Yes, the island is Palm Beach.

To me, the drawbridge doesn’t exist. That’s where my world ends. It’s like The Truman Show. Anything off the island is a giant screen. This is my life.

And… unfortunately, I love it.

My problems have disappeared. I have stopped aging. I get complimented constantly. I get along with everyone. I’m in the best shape of my life. Everyone looks like me. It’s Squidville, but for those with trust funds.

The outside world is crumbling. My only choice was to roll up my Purple Label sleeves, raise the drawbridge, and commit myself to the grueling schedule of doing absolutely nothing at The Colony.

I am an Island Man. Now please excuse me. I have to get back to a conversation with this nice lady about her toy poodle.

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This article won’t win the $1M prize that was announced on X.

It won’t get impressions. It won’t get reposts or likes. It won’t be popular. Why? Because the Truth gets demonized, and even worse, ignored.

Everybody complains constantly on here about women. Their looks, their behaviors, their political leanings.. How they are the reason America (and the world) is going to hell.

It’s nonsense. I’d say women are harmless, but that is a severe understatement. That implies they are powerless, which they certainly aren’t.

They are the sole reason the world is innovating faster than at any time in history. They are the reason we wake up in the morning and do anything at all. Their confusing, devilish behaviors keep us perpetually on our toes so we attempt feats that are so selfless that any species in a foreign universe would think we’re suicidal.

Do you think Elon is building a trillion-dollar empire to better humanity? No. It’s to impress some chick. And that is how God intended.

I love every woman. I love the libtards, I love the MAGA moms, the cheaters, the purists, the tattooed, the feminists, the housewives, the grandmas, the HR gals, the babytrappers, and yes— even the E-Girls.

Each one is a beautiful angel. Each one has the childlike wonder within. Each one has the same operating system to drive each one of us insane.

You don’t have to date every woman. You don’t have to listen to every woman. But you should appreciate them. No matter how harsh or evil they seem, they are always one laugh away from cracking their hardened shell.

They operate solely within the spiritual realm. They guide you, protect you, and yes.. they even dress you. Once you understand God’s love for us, then we are ready to accept women for who they genuinely are.

Beautiful angels. It’s ok to simp a little.

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I finally cancelled my Equinox membership. I never used it. I just went in there to charge my phone whenever I was lost in NYC. They have decent smoothies, too.

But I completely stopped lifting weights there. Why would I? Spending an hour around sweaty people with tattoos in AirPods isn’t my idea of a good time.

Besides, I already look fantastic. I can hit a golf ball 320 yards.

I caught my reflection in the mirror the other day (I am being modest— I was looking at myself for a good 20 minutes), and I had a realization.

Working out is fake news.

Back when I believed the lies, I hit the weights like a marine. I was at the gym every morning “pumping iron.” Squats. Deadlifts. Bench. Airpods. All the COMPOUND exercises the roided-out YouTubers swear by. I even took creatine.

And what happened?

I felt awful. Like I’d been hit by a small truck. Foggy. Irritable. I couldn’t play golf. I was useless.

I am convinced Big Fitness is a plot to neutralize the population. How can we fight our enemies when we are always recovering from yesterday’s workout?

True health is incredible genetics. Perhaps minimal exercise helps, but it has to be actual activities. Walking, swimming, golf, sunbathing, listening to Phil Collins…

Even the strongest person alive, President Donald J. Trump, agrees with me about the gym.

There’s no way going to a place with fluorescent lighting that blasts rap music directly into your brain extends your life.

I’m the perfect case study. Look at me. I do nothing all day except sip Diet Cokes, play golf, write groundbreaking substacks, and nap. And what do I look like?

Handsome Squidward if he had hair.

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Right now it’s between Christmas and New Year’s. So basically a gigantic weekend. Nobody is working. Everybody is off. And everything is more crowded, louder, slower, and inefficient.

I genuinely think we need to have a 7-Day-Workweek. Bored people are a menace. Idle minds don’t rest. They invent problems, narratives, movements, and emergencies. If there’s nothing to do, suddenly everything is an issue.

The NFL does a fantastic job sedating the masses, but it’s not nearly enough. It’s polluting my life because everywhere I go, I see jerseys. Jerseys and themed apparel everywhere. I see them so often, I’m starting to learn player names involuntarily.

This isn’t ok.

We need to put people back to work. Or at least give them something pointless but time-consuming to do. This is where AI should step in. Not to replace jobs, but to invent meaningless assignments that keep people occupied and out of my way. Fake deadlines. Fake dashboards. Endless tasks. Everyone wins.

Each person gets their own AI girlboss PM. She follows up. She schedules check-ins. She makes sure nothing of value is ever completed. The icon is just a finger wagging.

I’ve considered starting a private club for people above the common world. Think Equinox, but inverted. No fitness. No rap music. No goals. It’s called WeDon’tWork. If you have a job, you’re not allowed in.

Inside: golf simulators, hot tubs, oysters & martinis, leather seats to lounge in while dressed in suits and arguing over our USGA handicaps.

My blood pressure drops just thinking about it.

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I saw a post on Twitter—sorry, X— that restarted my PTSD panic attacks. It said that if a woman compliments a man’s hands, it means it’s on.

So, being the egomaniac narcissist that I am, I immediately reminisced about every time a lady has mentioned my beautiful hands, and I accidentally remembered one particular instance that I desperately tried to forget.

So, let’s relive my traumatic experience together and see if I can heal from it. And of course, this all happened while I was in the Bay Area. So let’s begin the therapy session, and you can hold my hand (actually, please don’t) through this.

I WAS A SITTING DUCK

It was a foggy morning in Marin County.

I, having nowhere to be — a recurring issue in my life — decided to take my perfectly dressed, perfectly combed-hair self down to the local coffee shop to ship some tweets while sipping my $12 latte.

I was responding to one of my overseas developers when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I glanced back, and she was one centimeter from my face.

“Is this chair available?”

The chair in question was the one at my table. And it wasn’t a chair, it was a booth. Which meant she wanted to sit with me.

“No.”

She sat down anyway.

Before I even saw her, a wave of liquor hit me so hard I almost blacked out.

When my senses returned, I looked up and saw a delicate, late-50s woman with a Louis Vuitton handbag, dripping in jewelry.

My fight-or-flight reflex kicked in. I tried to get the staff’s attention.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Literally the first thing she asked.

“I’m sorry for being so forward,” she said, “you are striking.”

But she tapped into my weakness. Compliments.

She reached out and clutched my hands. “You have the most perfect hands I have ever felt in my life.” I was smitten.

“Thanks, I have never done any physical labor in my life.”

“You never answered me. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I do now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman this drunk before. But I didn’t care. She found my kryptonite. Never-ending over-the-top compliments. She wouldn’t stop; she kept slurring her words deeper and deeper as the minutes went on.

I was a victim, and I knew it.

By now it was 8:42 am. I was a lost cause. She leans in, and I smell the rancid liquor deep in her breath as she whispers, “Let’s get outta here.”

I didn’t need any more information.

“My husband and I would love to show you a good time.”

:|

I was back in Florida that night.

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When I was in my late teens I read a very influential book (I know, since when do I read) called Zero To One by Peter Thiel.

It had a profound effect on my young entrepreneurial mind. It used terms like Venture Capitalists, SAFEs, Pre-Seed… a bunch of nerd vernacular that meant “I should be shoved in a locker.”

But still, I was curious. I was in my country club bubble in NC. All I knew was launching 300-yard tee shots… and then sipping sweet tea in the clubhouse with retirees who loved to tell me to “get a job.”

I knew I had to investigate the Bay Area further. But the odds were stacked against me. I was skipping college, I had no connections, and even worse… I was a Republican.

Not a typical I-want-low-taxes Republican (even though I certainly do). I was a deport-every-last-person-who-bothers-me Republican. I wore the red hat with the big bold lettering. I would never fit in.

Or so I thought.

I realized I had forgotten one critical variable that transcends politics, geography, and degrees:

I am tall and handsome.

SFO IS THE BEST AIRPORT IN THE COUNTRY

I landed at SFO, and the first thing I noticed was the giant gender-neutral bathrooms the size of gymnasiums in the terminal, next to a huge wall about some dude named Harvey Milk (who I assume created oat milk).

I immediately used the woke bathrooms and I have to admit… they were magnificent.

They were clean, spacious, and had the “vacant/occupied” color-coded signs you only see in countries with functioning governments. It was like a private suite.

I’m used to the actual ghetto— Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport. Where every man shares the same urinal and you get into fistfights on the underground train.

“Next station is concourse F. F as in Food Stamps.”

I ignored the pride flags on every corner at SFO and the people who looked androgynous (they all looked like they were characters from Monsters Inc.). I didn’t even notice most of it because I was too busy marinating in the quiet, spotless, and futuristic environment. It was a harmonious experience, with every person locked in with AirPods on and thick glasses.

The airport was pristine.

THE HOMELESS SCAM

Everyone talks about the homeless people in San Francisco. It’s all they yap about on Fox News.

Here’s an important piece of info you conservatives need to get into your head.

CRIME DOESN’T CLIMB

Repeat that a few more times until it sinks in. Gravity is the ultimate gatekeeper.

The homeless or “unhoused” (I call them the unbathed) cannot physically keep their shopping carts parked on a 45-degree incline. Physics is not on their side. If they try to set up a tent, they slide right back down the slope into the Tenderloin.

So when I picked my apartment on Lombard Street (home of the famous “Crooked Hillary Street” on Russian Hill), I knew I was safe.

I decided to rename the neighborhood Russian Mountain because the first time I walked up the block, my calves were on fire.

That burn is the feeling of safety. If I’m struggling to walk up it in loafers, I know a guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans doesn’t stand a chance.

THE DISGUISE

To survive in the wild, a predator must blend in with the prey.

In New York or London, you wear a suit to signal power. A suit says, “I am important, libtard.”

In San Francisco, wearing a suit is a sign of mental illness. It implies you are a lawyer or, even worse, someone who actually goes to the office.

To become a “Tech Bro,” you must look like you pulled an all-nighter because you were too busy coding while also k-holing in your beanbag chair.

So, to fit in, I went straight over to the Patagonia store near Fisherman’s Wharf. I got myself a nice jacket that had a giant Patagonia logo stamped on the front. Hell yeah.

There was one small issue. I still didn’t look like a coder. I looked like my usual Trust Fund Man self, but wearing a Patagonia. I looked as if Gavin Newsom went hiking for a campaign ad.

(I should run for governor, actually. I have the hair for it.)

So to fix the problem, I went over to the New Balance store and told the clerk: “Hi, I am looking for the sneakers Steve Jobs wore.”

She (he?) immediately went to the back and brought out a perfect pair of the grey V6 990s.

I laced them up. I looked down. They were just like the kind of shoes you wear when recovering from hip surgery.

I became a divorced dad who lives in Palo Alto.

I was in business.

THE BATTERY

So I had the apartment. I had the look. The only thing missing was the actual company.

I didn’t need a business plan. I needed a VC.

So I went to the one place in San Francisco where I actually feel at home: The Battery.

I walked up to the brick building on Battery Street. The desk didn’t even check my membership. They saw the shoes, my new fleece, and simply nodded. They knew I was a “Founder.”

I walked out of The Library (too loud, I don’t want to listen to any piano) and headed straight for The Garden.

I sat down next to a guy who looked like he hadn’t slept in three weeks. He was wearing a $600 hoodie that looked like he'd found it on the side of the road. He was furiously snapping pics for the ‘gram (even though you apparently aren’t allowed to take pictures at the Battery— but you don’t follow rules in SF).

He looked up at me. He saw my jacket. He saw my chunky, orthopedic foam shoes.

“Seed round?” he asked.

He didn’t even say hello. He just assumed I was stressed about a funding round.

“Series A,” I lied. “We’re oversubscribed, but I’m trying to squeeze in one more strategic partner.”

His eyes widened. I had said the magic words.

“I’m with Sequoia,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

It was that easy. I was in.

I took a sip of the $24 Sancerre he bought me and decided to see how far I could push this.

“I have to be transparent,” I said, leaning in. “This isn’t a typical Valley play. We’re building for... Middle America.”

I waited for him to throw his drink in my face.

Instead, he just nodded.

“Smart,” he whispered. “Untapped market.”

He didn’t care about politics. He just cared about the exit.

He handed me his card.

I looked at it. It just said Vice President.

“Impressive, very nice,” I said. “But wait, I thought you were with Sequoia?”

He winked and took a long drag of his vape.

“You actually bought that?” he said. “I can’t work with those guys. Too safe.”

He wasn’t a corporate drone. He was over everything.

Just like me.

“It’s getting late,” I told him, checking my Apple Watch. “I have a dinner with Elon at the French Laundry.”

“I gotta bounce too, I’m meeting some chicks at Balboa. Text me on Signal. Let’s play a pickleball match this week.”

I walked out of The Battery and got into the Waymo. The fog was rolling in. I put in my AirPods and played “California Love” by Tupac.

I had come here to mock them. But as I rode back to my apartment on Russian Mountain, I realized the terrifying truth:

I love it here.

I adjusted my jacket. I checked my step count.

Maybe I should launch a startup. How hard can it be?

How about a Trump video game?

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Pickleball should be banned. I’ve said it in the past and I'll say it again. I’ll say it for the rest of my life. As much as it takes until it is permanently wiped off the face of the earth.

My heart aches, breaks, shatters, cries, screams, explodes whenever I see beautiful historic tennis properties replacing their courts with tacky, ugly, noisy pickleball sections (I refuse to call them courts, they are NOT courts).

Pickleball is definitely not a sport. It’s a hobby. It’s the same as bowling. I’d say it’s tennis’ ugly cousin but the cursed activity isn’t remotely related to that elegant, majestic sport.

The purpose of tennis is to attract the fittest, most attractive, and most prestigious people in the world and to dissuade the loud, unwashed masses. You need to be fit. You need to wear all white. You need to have enough hair for a headband. Tennis is pure. Tennis is alpha.

Pickleball is a middle finger to anyone with dignity. To wealth. To your Divine Creator.

Just say no.

So what kind of person actually plays pickleball? We need to dig deep into this if we have any hope of eradicating this horrific disease. I believe it is a symptom of something darker, much more sinister.

The country is deteriorating.

So without further ado, let’s publicly name and shame the habits of those who partake in this dreadful activity.

1. APPLE WATCHES

Pickleball players love Apple Watches. They usually have their polyester outfits, performance gloves on … and their digital TV on their wrists to calculate their strenuous workouts. It’s not enough that they have an iPhone Pro MAX, iPad, Macbook Pro, 80-inch TV… They might miss out on some critical health information. They might not get their full step count.

I have nothing against real watches. A proper analog piece is art. It tells the time while showing everyone exactly where you sit in the hierarchy. (Apple Watch wearers signal to everyone they think Hillstone is nice—which is just a glorified Chili’s).

I do not need a TV on my wrist that alerts me it’s past my 9 pm bedtime. I do not need a voluntary ankle monitor tracking my location for the FBI.

Pickleball players do, though.

When you go to bed early, you get to preserve your energy to dominate the game and win the Grand Prize of being an embarrassment to everyone.

2. FACETIMING IN PUBLIC

The other day I was minding my own business, sipping a pumpkin latte while responding to one of my lawyers, when a pickleball player next to me interrupted the silence with the most obnoxious noise of all time: A public FaceTime call.

She jammed her oversized iPhone Pro MAX into her face, which was about the size of a dinner plate. No headphones. Speakerphone at maximum volume.

I was forced to listen to a loud 10-minute discussion about how much she loved Kamala Harris, broadcast to the entire coffee shop. Let me be clear: Unless Tiger Woods is personally calling you to play golf, there is zero reason to video chat in public.

At the end of this ordeal, I went outside and walked past her Tesla Model Y. I didn’t even need to look, but I did.

There, on the passenger seat, were two neon plastic paddles.

Sad.

3. VAPING

SOMEBODY IS DOING THE VAPING… and it’s pickleball players.

I’m a cigarette guy. I always have been. There is nothing cooler than lighting up a Marlboro Red and brandishing a .44 Magnum. While I’ll never actually smoke (I’m too handsome and I refuse to get wrinkles), I always respect smokers. They have skin in the game. They know it’s killing them.

Vapists think they’re healthy. They’re not. Vaping turns your lungs into popcorn. Or so I’ve been told.

I have thought a lot about nicotine pouches as well and I almost want to lump them in with e-cigarettes. However, there is one key distinction: They are less noticeable. They can cram as many cotton balls as they want in their mouths, but at least they aren’t bothering me.

Vapers do not extend the same courtesy.

I was recently in the back of an Uber Black, which turned out to be a Tesla Model Y (since when are Teslas considered “Black Tier?”).

The driver, who was naturally wearing an Apple Watch, pulled out his thumb drive. A cold dread washed over me. I wanted to jump out of the window. The Tesla immediately filled with vapor smelling like blueberry ice. I began coughing profusely.

“Did you win your pickleball match today?” I asked, half jokingly.

He beamed. “I did actually.”

I really need to see someone.

4. SNEAKERS WITH A SUIT

I would argue wearing a suit with sneakers is worse than pickleball.

It is possibly the greatest sin of them all.

It dishonors God.

A suit is a sacred garment. It exists to elevate you. To distinguish you from the masses. To show you are important. To signal lineage, restraint, an understanding of the world’s natural hierarchy.

Sneakers annihilate all of that.

You have failed your heritage. You have failed your name.

You could be a billionaire. You could be an Ivy League graduate. You could even be the President of the United States. But the second you tie the laces of your thick white-soled Cole Haans and walk out your front door, all of it evaporates. You look like you’re dressed for prom.

With one simple move, you have permanently banished yourself from the very circles you so desperately wish to be a part of. With those sneakers or “tennis shoes,” you step on the graves of your ancestors— who will now be forgotten.

Call them what they are: pickleball shoes.

5. VOTED FOR JOE BIDEN

Pickleball players all voted for Joe Biden.
Even if they voted for Trump, they voted for Joe Biden.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am late for my tennis lesson.

TFM

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I’m going to come clean: I once owned two whole bitcoins. Two solid digital gold coins that could buy me an entire Lambo right now if I held on… or “Hodl’ed,” as the kids say.

But I sold them in 2017. Why? Because bitcoin is a scam. Even if it isn’t a scam and goes to a billion dollars each, it’s still a scam.

I’ve spent hours pondering, and I’ve decided it’s a fake-news psyop created by either (1) a government, (2) a shadow government, or (3) a spooky government that’s shadowy.

The ultimate objective isn’t just financial tracking; it’s to ease us into uploading our entire lives onto a public blockchain so we can be censored and scrutinized forever.

A Trojan Horse.

Well, that’s one of my theories. The other theory is: I panic sold because it dipped $100 and I’m emotionally unstable.

But I’m one of the least unstable people out there. I am stoic. I read Ryan Holiday. I’m cold as ice. I don’t stress about anything.

Except… sometimes when I look at a crypto chart and the line is RED. I might get a little nervous. You can guess what happened next.

Yes I immediately sold. Threw my hardware wallet in the trash, burned my house down, cried to my golf pro, and never thought about it again.

So to play it safe, my portfolio has since had zero crypto whatsoever, and I get to periodically post my classic tweet whenever bitcoin has an off day.

I’ve been feeling pretty good lately. It’s down $30,000 from the highs. I am a genius.

And before it goes back up, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to return some videotapes.

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Every morning I wake up in a sweat. Actually afternoon. I don’t wake up in the mornings. I go to bed in the mornings. 3 am, 4 am. Wake up hours later freaking out, scroll Twitter till I pass out again.

By 12, I force myself up. Sheets need to be changed… but they’re usually not even on my bed by then. They’re on the floor. Anyway, I forgot what was bothering me but it was very important. Probably something someone did to me 3 years ago. I change the details daily but I am going to get revenge. I will never tell anyone who or what but I am going to win. I win at everything. You’ll see that. Even if I lose, enough time passes and it actually becomes a win.

Anyway. I’m up. Showered. Drank a coffee with a dozen sugars and cream. No breakfast because I have to maintain my perfect 28-inch waist. Many people tell me I should work out and eat more but they’re jealous I’m 6’4, thin, handsome, and genetically incapable of balding (affirmation). I would sympathize with them if I had the time, but I don’t. 175 mph ball speed, 300-yard drives. You get the picture.

I email my lawyers, I send my business partners memes, and I read an article confirming my worldview that the world is going to hell because everyone is smoking pot. Typical day so far. I start to get really antsy. It’s another day where nothing happens.

I am not getting any likes on tweets, I’m tired, my lawyers aren’t calling me (they’re my only friends), and I don’t feel like responding to Twitter e-girls. They’re cute obviously but they just want me for my body and they’re on drugs. I hate drugs. I want a genuine sober connection. Because I’m level-headed and stable.

It’s 3:30 pm by now I’m going to lose my mind. I need lunch. I’m no longer tired, I’m shaking. I’m turning pink. This is usually the part of the day where something either goes terribly wrong or incredibly right. Same thing, really. I swerve around a grandma on my way to the deli. She should look both ways. I was sending a tweet. In the heat of the moment, I thought of my next billion-dollar business idea: A video dating app called 30 Secs.. say it slowly.

I get excited and phone my business partners. They tell me to chill out or they’re going to put me in an institution. I tell them stagnation is death. They hang up. They’re thinking about it. Another win.

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FYI, this idea is real and if you want to invest in this particular app, DMs are open. You just need 2 things: capital, and don’t get scared when I send you an agreement that is 300 pages long. I’ll put you in touch with my firm. Thank you for your attention to this matter.