In attempt to teach you what real pain is, Golf Digest decided to let Jim Nantz go Kerouac on everyone’s ass. You should never expose yourself to Jim Nantz’s stream-of-consciousness musings, but I would like to briefly draw your attention to his deeply disturbing anecdote about toast:
On the other hand, there’s a little Jack Nicholson in “Five Easy Pieces” in me. I’m a breakfast guy: three eggs scrambled, with bacon and wheat toast, burnt. The problem is, it never came back burnt. For years it would arrive limp and tan, which brought breakfast to a standstill when I sent the toast back. It was costing me 10 minutes a day, which, multiplied by six days a week, is four hours a month. That’s 48 hours—two full days—per year. My friends, time is currency. My wife, Courtney, got tired of hearing me complain about it. She found a photograph on the Internet of a kitchen toaster ejecting two slices of burnt toast. She minimized it, printed it out and had it laminated. She insisted I put it in my wallet. When I order, I present the photo to my server. I get some strange looks, but I can assure you, the toast now arrives black and scary, just the way I like it.
Being rich and old rots your brain.