Whenever I walk off the golf course, I thank God that I'm able to tell a joke. I thank God I'm good at something.

If I have sex, I know my quarterly estimated taxes must be due. And if it's oral sex, I know it's time to renew my driver's license.

That's the one thing I have over any twenty-one-year-old: a proud history of accumulated neuroses. That's the game in which I'm da man.

The successful golfers - they're like astronauts or pilots. They have that demeanor that they can focus and stay within that one moment and nothing distracts them. That's not me.

Nothing like a little chest pain to restore your faith.

I'm now unemployed. It's a weird feeling with no work, but at least there's still golf. Standup comedy is like my core, it's what I do. But I want to be a pro golfer. It's a love/hate relationship with golf. I can come away feeling so serene, and yet, it's the thing that I can let get to me to throw a club and say curses that don't even exist. I'm obsessed with something that won't let me master it. I don't know. I need therapy.

You might think that's an exaggeration but believe me, if you leave twin two-year-olds alone in your living room, at some point a cow will be airborne.