Sure, God Shammgod was a cool name, but how was his short game?

I just love it when, after I randomly choose something to be my favorite of its kind, I am proven right on all accounts.

I'm not a golf-lover. In fact, I think it's pretty stupid. I have played a round, and I will admit that it was fun -- for a while. But after about 12 or 13 holes (which takes three goddamn hours or so), I began to lose my focus. The final few were not pretty. Perhaps it was the numerous six-packs I had been drinking in that hot summer sun, I don't know. Those of you who play the full 18 with full concentration, I admire your persistence.

But in general, golf is boring. Come on, admit it. Or don't, whatever. (You suck.)

Golf does, however, offer the occasional joy. John Daly, for example, is a true ambassador for the sport. He drinks like a viking on a bender ("Viking Bender" -- what a term. I intend to go on one this weekend. Won't you join me?), he smokes on the course, and basically has a "Fuck you" attitude toward the PGA. Tiger Woods? I don't hate him (because how can you?), but I'd like to hear the occasional three-hooker-orgy story or something. That's when I'll really like him.

But my favorite golfer has always been Jesper Parnevik.

"I remember my '89 Upper Deck Ken Griffey Jr. card. Do you?
It was gonna put my kids through college. What happened, Ken?
Why do you hate children? And America? And the homeless?
Oh just go pull another groin or something, cocksucker."

But Open Bar -- you hate golf, how could you have a favorite player?

Simple, his fucking name. Say it aloud. Jes-per Par-ne-vik. Sounds Shakespearean, doesn't it? White people don't often get cool names like that. Black people get names like Coco Crisp and D'Brickashaw Ferguson and Pooty Tang. White folks are usually Jim (Furyk) or Ernie (Els) or Shooter (McGavin). Okay, that last one is cool, but it's also FICTIONAL, maybe the only way white people get to have cool names.

But then there's Jesper. Jesper Parnevik. Just say it: "Par-ne-vik." As the great Vladimir Nabokov once wrote:

"Parnevik, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Par-ne-vik: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Par. Ne. Vik."


Anyway, my man J.P. just shot a fucking 61 at the Texas Open. And while that's awesome on its own, what really fired up my loins was that he just came back from an injury that we can all applaud.

As the story goes:

Jesper Parnevik spent two months this year trying to play with an injured toe. He broke it while scampering around on his boat and jamming his foot into a case of beer.

No. Parnevik wasn't drinking.

"That was the problem," he said. "The case was full."

Ah, my Swedish brother from another (probably super-hot Swedish chick) mother.

AND, he is also famous for eating volcanic dust as a dietary supplement. (So says Wikipedia.)

So yeah, I have a favorite golfer. One who shoots 61s, eats volcanoes, and breaks his toe just so he can take a few months off from playing fucking golf and sit down on his big-ass boat and drink his face off.

And his name rules. His black Swedish mom must be proud.