The darn woodchuck was bothering me. He was a smart woodchuck. He had a bucket of red paint, which he was using to paint the golf course. "Ha ha ha," laughed the woodchuck. "I am painting this blade of grass right now. Watch as my paintbrush, which is laden in red paint, strokes the blade. See? It is red now. Ahahahaha!!!!!"

I was having none of it. I do not like the golf courses to be red, especially the green, which is called a green for a reason. You don't call them red or blues or yellows, do you? No. They are greens. You never hear an announcer on the Golf Network say: "And Tiger chips the ball on to the yellow." Of course not. Then again, if you watch the Golf Network, you're a loser.

Anyway, I pulled out a gun and I shot the woodchuck. The woodchuck died.

Then I sat down and thought about golf. I realized that my most favourite activity was golfing and caddying for professional golfers. Wow. I'd wasted months - no, years - of my life hitting a little white ball around a golf course. I got really depressed when I realized all the better things I could have done with that time. I even made a list of better things to do than golf. Here's part of it:

- Take a mime course
- Write six minute stories
- Tell Galen I love him
- Juggle coconuts
- Make a robot out of cardboard boxes
- Grow an afro
- Conjugate verbs
- Deify plums
- Lie on things (like raw steak and beds and people who look like Elmo from Sesame Street)
- Tickle Taylor Swift (no one would dispute that)
- Buy more shoes

I killed myself because golf is a stupid depressing game and it takes up way too much room in this country. George Carlin was right. When I shot myself, blood flew everywhere. Of course it did. It just wouldn't be a Shteevie story if it didn't.