I pass by a driving range on my way to and from my minimum wage part-time job. There is something so incredibly bourgeoisie about hitting a bucket of golf balls outside, in your shirt sleeves, at night, in January, while it’s snowing; that I have to resist the desire to go inside, grab someone’s club, and start whacking people over the head with it. It would almost be worth the 10 years in prison.
I pass by a driving range on my way to and from my minimum wage part-time job. There is something so incredibly bourgeoisie about hitting a bucket of golf balls outside, in your shirt sleeves, at night, in January, while it’s snowing; that I have to resist the desire to go inside, grab someone’s club, and start whacking people over the head with it. It would almost be worth the 10 years in prison.