Big News: I'm Part Of The Internet Invitational! UPDATE: I'll Go Fuck Myself!
You guys hear about this Internet Invitational? Million bucks on the line. Real money, even to a kid whose ancestors booted the captain of the Mayflower out of his room because they liked his view better. Poor guy took the first mate's bunk, which put that little bitch down below with the deck hands and stowaways, among the barrels of rotting apples and satchels of hard tack soggy from human piss.
Good news: I'm on the list! I'm invited! I'll be playing in this superstar event alongside my pals in the YouTube golf world. Apparently, my consistent inclusion in Foreplay content over the last year+ stamped my ticket to the big day. I'm excited as all hell, because I get along quite well with a bunch of these dudes. I even made a little fun video recently to highlight and preview some of the personalities who will be competing:
I should say that whenever the Invitational was brought up among the group, I made sure the Foreplay guys knew I didn't expect to be part of it. I told them I wanted to be in, but I know I'm a fill-in guy for them, and I'm happy to just help whenever they need me. I love traveling with them and playing golf on camera is an absolute dream day of "work," so I feel no entitlement whatsoever to any of their scheduled events.
They assured me I was on the list. I'm in. "No world where you won't be in it," were the words as I remember.
Yesterday, I received a group text message from our big events coordinator asking me (and our other players) to fill out a form for the Invitational. It asked for my Ghin number, whether I would participate in the Internet Invitational, my shirt size, and my mailing address. I've never filled out a form so quickly in my life. Goodness me, I had so many silly typos from my excitement; my fingers weren't cooperating with my brain! I had to step away and work my way through six rounds of square breathing to settle my hyperactive heart enough to plug in my email address.
Then I received a Google Calendar invite to block off the days for the Invitational, which I enthusiastically accepted.
Then I sent a text to my favorite golf partner, frequent cart buddy, and overall favorite person at Barstool—Trent:
What… what's this? Ha, clearly Trent doesn't know that I filled out my shirt size, accepted a Google calendar invite, and double-checked with administrative people that I was, in fact, chosen to play in the Internet Invitational—the marquee internet golf event of 2025 and possibly the decade.
You know, the sort of binding agreements you'd only offer to someone if you were absolutely certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that they would be playing.
Because to pull the rug on someone after all that? I mean, that's inhumane. That's cruel. That's child abuse, racism, cruel and unusual punishment… it's the reneging equivalent of an anti-semitic bottle service sign.
It couldn't possibly be so. Trent had to be misinformed.
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I'm sure you all saw where this was going. I didn't.
The way I learned that my invitation to the Invitational had been rescinded was through a cancelled Google calendar notification. That's like breaking up with someone via the banner message that trails behind a Cessna at some shitty beach town.
It's a good thing I didn't get my hopes up. What a relief that I didn't express my profound excitement to my friends that I had been asked to play.
That text exchange might legitimately be the saddest thing I've ever read from myself, and I've drafted multiple suicide notes. It's so pathetic that the broken shards of my heart came together for a brief second to laugh at it before retreating to the disparate corners of my rib cage.
Oh well. Plenty of other work to be done. If enough participants mysteriously die in the coming months, I'll be ready to step in at a moment's notice.
Just happy to be here. Let me know if you need me.