I've been otherwise occupied with the Redhead finishing our feature film "Writer's Cramp" (shameless plug, see it on Facebook), so have not been climbing into the Treehouse much lately. That stated - having just returned from Bandon - my zest for the game has been restored; living through the trauma of another U.S. Open and a mediocre renovation of my beloved Ocean Course soured me a bit, but I've recovered . . . . .
Now, back to the question: Why does Barny hate me?
Actually, I gave it a bit of thought; the answer is obvious: Barny hates me because he hates himself and cannot stand the company of anyone with a darker vision of reality. You see, I know that I am a pedantic ass - a snarky, pompous know-it-all with a helium-filled, overly inflated ego that has not come to terms with the reality of decaying skills, a yippy putter and a chipping game as likely to skull the ball across the green as lay the sod over the top of the new Pro-V1 I am not good enough to play. Unlike most people, who wander through life pretending that everybody says nice things about them, I know the truth. So do you Barny. Your loathsome nature comes out in the cruel things you write - the thin veneer of bullshit, stripped of its courtly Midwestern facade, jeers at people dying of cancer and torments the weak and defenseless.
You hate me because I know that those sanctimonious prayers you say in the church pew every Sunday is just a way to hedge your bet with God. Remember the way you tortured Tom H.? That was a fine way to treat a fellow Jesuit, yet your cruel nature would just not let it go until the harassment drove him from this site. Yet he forgave you, but your iniquitous impulses kept you from balancing the books.
You hate me because I'm a reflection of you. We are both angry comics, the only difference is our delivery. You hate most people and the courtly pretense you cultivate in person is just that - an invention of your soulless, dark presence. You hate me because we share the same moonless disposition that underpins our friendly persona. Aside from (admittedly many) close friends harvested from this site, I have exactly two people with whom I play golf with at home any regularity; the reason being that I find it difficult to endure the company of most of the membership at my club beyond a drink or two - even having been there for 38 years.
You hate me because I have no illusions about who and what you are. You hate everybody else because they seem beneath you.
P.S. Golf was used as a verb by C.B. Macdonald.