Golf Digest: One Man’s Journey
I’ve never thought of myself as exceptional. I’m just like any other blue-blooded American, born and bred in the Panhandle. I plod away each day down at the factory — attaching the ears to Mickey Mouse frozen waffles — and I spend my evenings planted on the couch in front of the idiot box. Up here, the Hallmark Channel shows the same eight Golden Girls reruns on an endless loop. It’s a simple life, but it’s mine.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when a new commercial popped up on the screen one night. The ad was for a medication, Lutriphan. With the ad’s crisp colors, beautiful people, and tall buildings, I was captivated, even if I didn’t quite catch what the drug does. The commercial was over as suddenly as it had begun, and in the outro, six simple words appeared — six words that haven’t since left my mind: “See our ad in Golf Digest.”
My mind was left rolling. What secrets might Golf Digest hold? Were some facts about Lutriphan too sacred to be broadcast? Without the crucial supplementary information locked away in that elusive club-and-ball publication, I was left empty. I had to get my hands on Golf Digest.
I tried calling, but the operator was combative and reminded me of my father. I went to the grocery store, but like I’d suspected — no luck. They only had Ranger Rick and a battered copy of Hustler that reminded me why I’d joined the Church. There was only one thing left to try — to face my fears and leave the Panhandle. It’s a great big world out there, and with enough searching, I was sure to come across Golf Digest sooner or later.
For years I roamed, carefully inspecting every bundle, page, and scrap of magazine I encountered. I scoured papier-mâché piñatas. I perused the gift wrapping of cheap and sustainably-minded people. I stole kindergarten collages to no avail. Instead of Golf Digest, I was met with Seventeen, National Geographic, and People — none of which held the secrets of the universe that the Digest touted. Then one day, plastered above the urinal in an Applebee’s bathroom — I finally spotted it. Golf Digest, and the centerfold, Lutriphan. And there, just below it, some indistinguishable fine print. I used my fingernail, gingerly removing the layer of hardened Elmer’s glue obscuring the hallowed words I’d traveled thousands of miles to read. I lowered my finger, peered in close, and suddenly understood. Written in a small font beneath the heading were the seven words I’d been waiting for: “See our ad on the Hallmark Channel.”
