I’m Popeye the Sailor Man. Or a dinosaur.

Playing golf on Thursday, my friends noted that my persistently awful tee shot probably has something to do with my arms.

“You have Popeye arms,” one of them said.

“What the hell are Popeye arms?” I asked, stepping away from the ball.

“Look at your forearms,” the other one said. “They’re bigger than your biceps. Actually, the last time we played, Phil said you had the arms of a T-Rex.  All short and stumpy.”

Nice friends. Huh?

So after I managed to shank my tee shot short and left, I texted my wife.

Do I have Popeye arms?

She responded with a series of three text messages:

Of course you do!

if that’s good.

If not, you don’t.

This did not make me feel any better.

The next day I texted Phil about his T-Rex comment.

So you think I have arms like a T-Rex.  Huh?

His response:

You just can’t make fun of anyone behind their backs anymore. You only have T-Rex arms when you golf. 

This did not make me feel better either.