Thank You for Not Practicing Your Golf Swing in Front of Me

Dear Sir from the Insurance Group,

Moments ago you strolled casually by my desk, to the elevators and, as you waited, bent slightly, fists together as if gripping an iron (surely you were approaching the green!), and swung your arms back ever so slightly before bringing them forward.

Thank you for never doing this in front of me again.

Sipping my tea, leering slit-eyed over the top of my monitor, I wondered: where did your imaginary shot land? Rough, sand, water? Certainly not. You swung with such carefree finesse that the ball in your mind could only have landed ten feet from the hole, the Florida sun blazing in the heads of your irons and warming your cheek, your "bros" admiring and promising a post-round martini as reward.

And though I have no idea what I mean when I say, "In the game of life there is no such thing as practice," it sounds pretty fancy, and also I think you ought to consider the likelihood that, in life, your shot would slice into the woods. But maybe that would be a good thing. Because in life it is possible that instead of enjoying the warm breeze you would be unsettled by a terrible urge to urinate. You would scamper after your ball, hoping your "bros" don't try to assist you in your search and, as a result, catching you hanging out in the woods with your dick exposed.

All this to say, also, that I don't need you to practice your swing in front of me to know you appreciate the finer things: perfecto cigars, loafers, DiGiorno pizza (it's not delivery), Duraflame logs, Cold Play, and Season III of asdf;kljsdl;kfjasd. No, I know this from your pleated, relaxed fit khakis. And what do my high water-corduroys, argyle sweater, and generic reading glasses say of me? Do they betray the ironic, irritable scrofula of the sarcastic suburban secondary-educated American middle class, aka "a complete a-hole"? Derrida only knows.

I grant you this single reprieve. And though you don't bother me nearly as much as Guy Who Looks Like A Beaver and Clears His Throat All the Time, please, do not ever practice your golf swing in front of me again.

Good day, sir.