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20 May, 4 tweets, 1 min read
Non-golfers don't get why golfers have been so upset about courses being closed in Ontario. Well, every golfer is a would-be murderer who isn't murdering people because we can spend hours walking around hitting golf balls instead. This is about your safety, not our pleasure.
Because I'm on a cold streak of people misreading everything that I've perfectly written: This is a joke.
The "perfectly written" part of the above tweet: also a joke.
Just assume everything I write is a joke. I'll tell you when I'm being serious. Like now. Seriously, just assume everything I write is a joke.

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More from @EnswellJones

Chris Jones Profile picture
11 May
HOW TO BECOME A REGULAR IN A BAR, by me, a man pictured with the drink named after me at my local. You don't have to thank me. You’re most welcome.
1. Go to the right place. You want a bar with the longevity to which you aspire. It should be somewhere people sit and drink and talk. Not fancy. Neon is nice. Long-time staff. Bartenders named after cities (e.g. Chicago Mike, Omaha Jenny.) Urinal with some heft and character.
2. On your first visit, scout it out for a beat before you sit down. Because wherever you sit, that’s gonna become your seat. I like a corner of a bar (two possible conversations to join), or a corner table, back to the wall. Wherever you sit, face the bartender or the room.
Read 16 tweets
Chris Jones Profile picture
11 May
Okay, quick story. I move to Santa Monica to work on a TV show. First week there, I need dinner. Bar named Rick's has a sign on the awning, $10 burger and beer, I think. Sold. I pull up. It's pouring rain. No change, and the parking meter won't take my Canadian credit card.
Rock n' roll woman behind the bar. I ask her if they give out parking tickets in Santa Monica in the rain. (Shut up, I was new.) Yes, she says. I explain my problem. SHE HANDS ME HER CREDIT CARD. I'm like, You don't know me. She holds out her hand. I put my wallet in it.
I go pay for parking with her card. Come back. She gives me back my wallet. The bartender's name is Kelly. Burger, beer, and a friendly conversation when I was feeling lonely and uncertain. Went back so often, I got the employee discount. One of my favourite places in the world.
Read 4 tweets
Chris Jones Profile picture
29 Apr
Not gonna lie, that is one giant fucking duck.
If I saw that duck, I'd be like, "Look at that size of that fucking duck."
Look at THE size, I mean. Honestly, I'm flustered by the size of that fucking duck.
Read 6 tweets
Chris Jones Profile picture
17 Apr
I'm glad I inherited my mum's stress response—incessant cleaning and tidying—rather than my dad's, which was going outside and throwing his coffee mug as far as he could and then sitting alone for a few hours.
My brother got both: I remember one time he was rage vacuuming and the cord got tangled and he karate kicked that machine in half like he was Bruce Lee.
My brother had no formal karate training, but in that moment, he summoned perfect form from somewhere deep inside himself. He was like those people who wake up from comas and can speak fluent Spanish all of a sudden.
Read 6 tweets
Chris Jones Profile picture
2 Apr
It’s been nearly a year since I told my first story here. “Pete Simon Saves the Day” was about kindness—about how one person doing a small, nice thing can change the trajectory of someone else’s day, year, and even life. Today I want to tell a story like that one.
I might get in trouble for this, but I don’t care. @brendanhannan recently left the LA Galaxy football club. He was the media guy there. He was awesome at his job. The relationship between journalist and publicist can be fraught, but he navigated that role with grace.
Here’s all I need to tell you about Brendan: Long before he worked for the Galaxy, he worked for Make-a-Wish as a “Wish Event Coordinator.” Do you know what that means? He made last wishes come true for gravely ill children. Now you know exactly the kind of guy he is.
Read 14 tweets
Chris Jones Profile picture
26 Mar
When my VERY REAL GIRLFRIEND and I started seeing each other, she lived in London. I was born in London, and it’s my favourite city in the world, excepting the acid attacks and knife culture. I’d happily fly there once a month to see them both, my loves old and new.
I always took the same flight, Toronto to Heathrow. I flew on my Canadian passport, and most of the time the customs line for foreigners wasn’t too bad. But one summer evening, I arrived to a customs line that was FOUR HOURS long. There was zero wait for UK citizens.
I had my old British passport on me, but it was expired. That’s… an understatement. I was 45 at the time. My UK passport was from 1988, when I was 15. It was an old black hardback, and my very common name was WRITTEN ON IT IN PEN. All the security features of a tent. Image
Read 12 tweets

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