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Of course they are. It's Masters Week!

Out of the mahogany woodwork the Golf Pricks scatter for this season’s first major. When Cialis isn't getting the job done, their wives know one hallowed word to whisper in thine hairy ear.

, mock golf swings in the break room that recall a sacrificial Mayan dance, and secret research on of past winners that WILL make a run on Sunday and win you serious loot in the office pool.

Just check Thursday’s leaderboard. Who’s your first round leader? 1992 winner Freddie Couples. Right behind him? Septuagenarian Tom Watson. And here’s a free insider tip for your pool when trying to pick a longshot Euro in column D that you just need to finish in the money. I have your guy: Charl Schwartzel, the young and toothy South African. (See Harrington, Padraig: teeth everywhere). Big stick. Ben Crenshaw on the greens. Every golf prick should model their life after Charl -- grow up poor on a farm near Johannesburg, skip bailing hay to play golf, end up on the PGA Tour in contention at the Masters.

That's a career ladder, folks.

The afternoons are spent watching the Masters online, huddled around flat screen monitors, engaging in hyperbolic banter:

"Golf shot!"


"Nobody else makes that shot. NO-body. Uh uh. GREAT hip turn."

"With all the pressure he’s under, six months away from the game …"

"He’s still The Man."

"I wish I could get away with what he did …"

"Did you see that Nike ad?"

"Awesome. I teared up actually. Did his Dad really call from heaven?"

"Dude. It’s Phil Knight. He's a walking deity. He can do anything."

"Running deity."

"Whatever. What hole is Tiger on?"

Friday evening (post Second Round) is spent at the range, beating balls with blistered hands until just one ball goes in a linear path at least 200 yards.

One bucket ... two buckets ... three buckets ... fuck it.

It’s now time to prepare SATURDAY'S OFFICIAL PRE-THIRD ROUND ROUND OF GOLF. On an actual golf course! Private preferably, but a well-maintained muni will suffice if wearing a sufficient disguise.

First waking thought at 6 am: "Did I lose a soft spike at the range yesterday? Could that be why every shot was a slice? Must be. When does GolfSmith open? Might as well get the new TaylorMade driver too."

A Xanax & bloody mary breakfast usually cures this anxiety, followed by a rub & tug in the shower while thinking of The Golf Channel's Kelly Tilghman. Something about the register of her voice that arouses ... a deep tenor of cluelessness and conviction that makes you think she'd really like to be Tigered in a lonely sand trap. The players on tour hate her but you love her. Which means she's probably a lesbian. Gravelly voice? Check. Aggressive nose line? Check. Blond highlights? Check. Piercing eyes? Check.

He totally banged her after that interview.

GET BACK ON ROUTINE! Do we have enough dilemmas? Another pre-round decision to make is which type of Mexican beer to buy and how to smuggle it on the course past Cart Chick. You’re really going to pay $18.50 for six Tecate's? Maybe if a blowjob came with it? Ha ha ha ha!

You might recognize that laugh. Golf Pricks follow Clipper Cooper on Twitter but his assistant has yet to figure out whether Cooper’s greatness can truly be conveyed in only 140 characters. Their request that the character limit be raised to 8600 has annoyingly gone unanswered from the kids who run Twitter. So you’ll get your Clipper Cooper once a
month, dictated to Sailor Ripley's voice mail then typed here by an intern, and like it.

"Whoa! GOLF SHOT! 9th hole. And we’re dancin’. What a beaut, Pomeroy! Way to read the break on that. Great track, eh? Front nine went by like THAT. Mark me down for a 38."

All hail the Golf Prick. For next week, you will yet again become irrelevant.

See you at the 19th hole. HAMMMMERED.