golf tits

i see them, those bight shirted middle aged men (Tiger too) lumbering down the links in the blazing sun. there they jiggle, the dude boobs, left, right, up, down, shiver and shake. they make me laugh. i wonder if the wives in their lives look over at the tube while spooning slobber up baby's chin and notice them, their husband's titties and think: 'how did he let this happen?!' i don't play the game, but i sport my own omelettey pair. i sense them boobing about in my t-shirt as i careen around Doyle's. there they are in the window. there they are in the mirror. there they are when i bend over to take an order. do they cleave? should one have work done? do the lovers in our lives go for them? are they something to squeeze, to feel comfy with as the waist expands? on the mountain top of the male rack, the prime example are golfers with titties. it doesn't make sense. they're athletes, right? they walk around a lot. some slave carries the bag, but the players tromp up and down the fairways and soldier on. do they scarf down pizza and beer between strokes? do they huff or puff off camera? do they encourage their titties as a counter balance to an effective swing? would a sports bra squeeze them flat and sweaty? do they hurt? will they require a mastectomy at the 19th hole? do they even care that they have jello boobs dancing like miniature fat girls in their Nike shirts? has vanity yet to strike the greens? i think about guitar hero pecs, those perky pikers above heroin-lean abs. those guys look good. they don't play golf. ah ha! so that's it, the game itself! slapping testicular globs across OCD lawns. have they been unconsciously castrating themselves into chicks with dicks? eew.