Even if this is the only Masters I ever get to attend, I plan on annoying people for the rest of my life based on my experience this week. The intimate detailed golf knowledge gained from walking the course will be put to good use and is destined to cost me valuable friendships for years and years to come.

Here’s the deal. Every future first full week in April in the Durst household will be an invited affair, complete with egg salad sandwiches and some hastily constructed imitation pimento spread. Perched on a Masters Green couch drinking leftover St Patrick’s Day green beer and grinding sour cream and onion chips into my green shag carpeting, my golf buddies and I will watch the finest golfers in the world compete on my zillion inch HD 3D TV. Graciously and patiently, I will generously impart to the assembled my accumulated wisdom concerning the hidden majesty that lies unseen in front of them.

“What you fail to see on TV is that the drop on No. 6 is approximately 3,000 feet. The caddies actually carry oxygen bottles and rent out pack mules to maneuver the tricky climb.”

And by Sunday, I’ll be talking to the cat.

The expensive part will be finding new golf buddies every year.