I’m usually a leader in good soldier points at my work place (well, at my former workplace, I’ve not been around long enough here to even get on the tally board, and, well, I don’t have the expertise to really get there here, but that’s neither here nor there), however, I may not make it here.

My boss, the wonderful Dave “Yid” Armbruster wants me to be writing about most of the major sporting events going on. I understand that and love that. It’s great. But, well, there’s gonna be some friction over this one. I’m not going to write about what Yid will undoubtedly be watching this weekend -- The Masters.

It’s not as much that I hate golf as much as I hate Golf Guy.

Golf Guy’s as bad as fantasy football guy -- you know, the one who thinks you actually care about his team and thinks he actually accomplished something by winning his fantasy league. Well, that’s no different than guy who shot a 77 at the local track this weekend. That guy may care about how he picked the Broncos’ defense up on waivers right before three defensive touchdowns, but you don’t care about that or his par save on 12.

And a bad as Golf Guy is (in his pastel shirt) on a normal Saturday, he’s even worse this week. Oh, Masters week. I lived in Georgia, and it’s even worse there, where everyone who ever has stepped foot on the grass of Augusta National wears either a Maters’ hat or shirt. It’s some odd law that if you go there, you’ve got to buy the hat or the polo shirt to prove it. My friend Josh wore the same 1998 Masters’ hat as long as I’ve known him. I love Josh, but, well, the thing started to stink in 2000 and I’m guessing he’s still wearing it this week.

Augusta, by the way, is a stinkhole. The town’s idea of fine dining is Hooters. They have a nuclear power plant there because if it exploded, the only thing it would destroy would be golf guy and Hooters. Neither of which would be missed. The only thing that would survive the nuclear meltdown would be the incessant gnats. Jasper Johns grew up around Augusta and said, “in the place where I was a child, there were no artists and there was no art, so I really didn’t know what that meant.” Its most famous citizen is an ex-con and convicted wife-beater (but musical genius) James Brown.

I’ve been to Augusta; I have a hard time believing it can contain the most beautiful place on Earth as you and I are told repeatedly by Golf Guy. But hey, it looks nice on TV (and really, really nice in HD.) But there’s a reason they didn’t show you all the holes on TV until 15 years ago, because really, only half the holes look like your usual golf course anywhere else, because above all else, this is still Disgusta. Now, you can show the lemmings a donkey patch and they’d revere it because they’re told this is some sort of nirvana.

Augusta is a nasty little town, but the acres that are occupied by Augusta National are the richest of the country’s rich. The old saying about the greens fees at Augusta is that if you have to ask how much they are, you can’t afford them. This is the elite of the upper class in this country, and yet they bunker in this one part of the town and let the rest go to pot, fiddling all the while.

Even worse than the draconian rules on the course (fans aren’t allowed free will or cell phones) is the complete control that the club enforces on the TV partners that are ever so graced to televise the event so much so that CBS gives up any semblance of journalistic integrity just to bow to the alter of the Masters. These aren’t “fans” they’re “patrons”; it’s not “the rough” it’s the “second cut”; it isn’t “horse dung” it’s “fantasy grass food.” CBS pays millions of dollars to broadcast this load of sentimental pap, and yet they’re told to smile while they sign the check and follow the rules and state that it never rains, it’s just “blessed by God’s mist.”

And then you have the lead sycophant, Jim Nantz, who has 50 Tiger Woods winning catch phrases ready, just aching to pounce on the perfect time to unleash his newest pun. A week after we vomited from hearing his rehearsed “Rock Chalk Championship” ruining an entertaining NCAA Championship, he’ll wear out prowl, hunt and tales puns as Tiger Woods dominates the event and wins it once again.

And once Tiger does win it, what does he get? Oh, that’s right, the polyester green jacket that may have looked nice back in the day of black and white TV or in a 70s second-hand smoke haze, but looks more like something found at a garage sale in 2008.

But Golf Guy, oh, Golf Guy will recant the majesty and the beauty of his tee shot on 13 on the third day and blah, blah, blah, puke.

Oh, Tiger’s the greatest athlete blah, blah, blah. And this isn’t Tiger hating, it’s golf hating. The guy’s the best, that’s fine. But seriously, he’s going to flip out because someone took his picture as he tried to hit a white ball that’s not even moving, much less not coming at him at 96 mph or curving in midair? Please.

And when was the last time you heard of a golf injury? Never. If there’s no chance of injury, it’s not a sport. If you must drink to make it enjoyable -- not a sport. If you ride around in a cart -- not a sport. If more than 70 percent of your time is spent lining up a shot instead of shooting -- not a sport. If the other 25 percent is waiting for the guy in front to spend his 70 percent of the time lining up a shot -- not a sport. If John Daly ever was one of the best in your activity -- not a sport. If performance enhancement means Viagra and a driver the size of a Subaru instead of HGH -- not a sport.

Yes, I’ve played and I’m not any good. I don’t care. You know what, you may be good, but there’s 100 people a week who play at your local course who are better than you. So shut up. It’s a cute little hobby, it’s not a sport.

Yep, I don’t get it, I’m still too young. Golf is the only “sport” driven at the opposite end of the age spectrum. Every other “sport” (or leisure activity) is driven by young people, golf is what you do when you don’t understand the kids’ music and want to fit in with your Dockers and sweater vest.

Doc told me I didn’t get it because my generation is ruining the only pure thing in “sports.” Well, it’s not our fault we don’t buy into the sexist, racist hegemony that rules Augusta National and every aspiring elitist junior investment banker frat boy intent on returning to the status quo of the good ol’ days. Meanwhile, Paul Daugherty and his brainwashed followers sit on their steps and tell anyone under 40 to get out of their yard. That’s fine: we don’t want in your yard.