Chip Greenswood had loved golfing since before he could remember, and now he was the laughing stock of every professional tournament he played in.
Chip, while exhibiting an average male body shape in every other way, had a perfectly taut, round rear end. As he adjusted his stance at the tee, the crowd would whistle and catcall. Television commentators rarely spoke of his glorious swing or his calculated putt, focusing only on his attractive behind. Cameramen missed his shots completely as they zoomed in on his caboose. A groundskeeper once shouted for him to “shake it.” No matter if he was hitting birdies or slicing bogeys, nobody could see his determination or talent; they only saw his posterior.
The final straw came on what should have been one of the proudest days of Chip’s life: the day he won the Charmin Ultra Tournament. At sixteen under par, Chip had won a tournament by his widest margin yet. A beautiful woman presented him with a shining silver trophy, and the CEO of Charmin held an oversized check for $8,642 with Chip’s name on it. Chip stepped to the front of the stage and hoisted the trophy over his head, and the crowd cheered. Chip soaked in the glory like a rock star until a chant spread across the crowd until it crashed over him like a tidal wave. “Twerk,” he heard a voice thunderously repeating. The spectators to his right quickly picked up the chant. “Twerk, twerk, twerk,” they begged. As more and more golf fans chimed in, Chip felt like he was going insane. All he could hear was their riotous chant, beseeching him to “TWERK, TWERK, TWERK!” Chip slinked wordlessly offstage to the audible disappointment of the spectators, and that night, alone in his dingy room at the Holiday Inn Express, Chip decided he’d show them. They’d see. They’d all see.
Two weeks later, Chip was spotted at the Vegemite Open in Melbourne, Australia wearing a giant windbreaker jacket, despite the blistering heat. The hem of the jacket covered his bottom, to the dismay of all of those in attendance and most of those watching at home. “It looks like Greenswood is hiding his business in the back today,” one commentator remarked. But this was all part of the grand plan.
Chip selected his club and strolled up to the first tee, unbothered by the silent confusion of the normally raucous crowd. Balancing his club against his thigh, Chip winked at the camera before grabbing onto the collar of the windbreaker and shrugging the jacket off over his head. Of course, no one was looking up there.
Across the seat of Chip’s shorts was embroidered the logo for Preparation H. Here was Chip’s plan: Sell this highly visible and buzzworthy advertising space to the highest bidder for the season, which turned out to be the famous hemorrhoid cream brand. At $25 million for the season, Chip had signed the highest paying sponsorship deal in professional golf history.
Oh, the crowd was laughing, but Chip knew they would. And they could guffaw all they wanted, but now the attention was on his terms, and it was making him the richest pro golfer in the world, regardless of how average his playing was. Chip finished 12th in the Vegemite open, spent the night in a five-star hotel, flew first class back to his new million-dollar bachelor pad in Tucson, and seated himself on his brand new suede couch, which he purchased only to cushion, protect, and pamper his most precious asset.