I was taking a piss in the weeds when, after zipping up, I looked over and saw Watkins comparing my driver to his.

My actual Titleist driver.

He said, “Sorry, you just touched your dick, so this isn’t the best time, but you should feel the difference between my grip and yours.”

“I didn’t touch my dick.”

“You took a piss without touching your dick?”

“How do you do it?”

We’re talking about peeing outside here. In the grass. I don’t need to grab my penis, calibrate it, and carefully aim. Gravity handles most of the operation. Then you pull up your boxers and zip your pants. Jude can do that.

Which brings me to hygiene.

Even if I had touched my penis, I wouldn’t be thrilled about immediately grabbing my golf grip with the same hand. My golf towel already serves double duty as a club cleaner and personal snot rag. I’d rather not add “my dick dermis distributor” to its job description.

That said, I’m not much of a germaphobe. I’ll shake hands. I’ll hang around sick people. I’ll eat lunch meat 2 days past the expiration date.

But everyone draws weird lines somewhere.

A bath towel that smells even slightly funky? Absolutely not. If the towel smells bad, then I smell bad. Yet somehow I wash the bath mat about six times a year and never think twice about it. It’s mainly because that bath mat has to go in by itself which would put it ahead of higher priority wash loads.

If I catch even the faintest hint of BO on a shirt, it’s dead to me. Into the laundry. Meanwhile, I can wear the same jeans for weeks without concern. Unless there’s a food stain. Or a rip. Or anything that might cause someone to notice me.

That’s really the guiding principle behind my entire existence: don’t attract attention.

No flash. No statement pieces. Just look presentable, don’t smell weird, stay reasonably fit, keep a clean shave and a decent haircut.

That’s enough.

And make sure I don’t touch my penis while I pee. I still wash my hands after EVERY bathroom use EVERY time. You need to evaluate your life if you don’t.