Good Jim Nantz article from Golf Digest

I'm a breakfast guy: three eggs scrambled, with bacon and wheat toast, burnt. The problem is, it never came back burnt. For years it would arrive limp and tan, which brought breakfast to a standstill when I sent the toast back. It was costing me 10 minutes a day, which, multiplied by six days a week, is four hours a month. That's 48 hours—two full days—per year. My friends, time is currency. My wife, Courtney, got tired of hearing me complain about it. She found a photograph on the Internet of a kitchen toaster ejecting two slices of burnt toast. She minimized it, printed it out and had it laminated. She insisted I put it in my wallet. When I order, I present the photo to my server. I get some strange looks, but I can assure you, the toast now arrives black and scary, just the way I like it.

CORNER BLITZ wrote:http://www.golfdigest.com/story/my-shot-jim-nantz

Although this part makes me think he's a psychopath

I'm a breakfast guy: three eggs scrambled, with bacon and wheat toast, burnt. The problem is, it never came back burnt. For years it would arrive limp and tan, which brought breakfast to a standstill when I sent the toast back. It was costing me 10 minutes a day, which, multiplied by six days a week, is four hours a month. That's 48 hours—two full days—per year. My friends, time is currency. My wife, Courtney, got tired of hearing me complain about it. She found a photograph on the Internet of a kitchen toaster ejecting two slices of burnt toast. She minimized it, printed it out and had it laminated. She insisted I put it in my wallet. When I order, I present the photo to my server. I get some strange looks, but I can assure you, the toast now arrives black and scary, just the way I like it.

Who the fuck likes burnt toast?

CORNER BLITZ wrote:http://www.golfdigest.com/story/my-shot-jim-nantz

Although this part makes me think he's a psychopath

I'm a breakfast guy: three eggs scrambled, with bacon and wheat toast, burnt. The problem is, it never came back burnt. For years it would arrive limp and tan, which brought breakfast to a standstill when I sent the toast back. It was costing me 10 minutes a day, which, multiplied by six days a week, is four hours a month. That's 48 hours—two full days—per year. My friends, time is currency. My wife, Courtney, got tired of hearing me complain about it. She found a photograph on the Internet of a kitchen toaster ejecting two slices of burnt toast. She minimized it, printed it out and had it laminated. She insisted I put it in my wallet. When I order, I present the photo to my server. I get some strange looks, but I can assure you, the toast now arrives black and scary, just the way I like it.

Who the fuck likes burnt toast?

steveschneider wrote:

CORNER BLITZ wrote:http://www.golfdigest.com/story/my-shot-jim-nantz

Although this part makes me think he's a psychopath





Who the fuck likes burnt toast?

I have a friend that's worked with a few of the sports casters, he said Jim is a very buttoned up and serious guy. That is a pretty odd story and fuck burn toast.

Tanfan! wrote:

steveschneider wrote:

I have a friend that's worked with a few of the sports casters, he said Jim is a very buttoned up and serious guy. That is a pretty odd story and fuck burn toast.

Well, at least he earned his wealth.  He didn't have his daddy buy him a bar in his 20s