Hey there, golfers and movie buffs! Ty Webb here, back with my impeccable swing and my even better taste in cinema. Today, we’re teeing up “Happy Gilmore 2,” the long-awaited sequel to Adam Sandler’s beloved golf comedy. But is it a hole-in-one, or does it hook hard into the trees?

Right off the tee, it’s clear “Happy Gilmore 2” knows exactly who it’s playing for. Adam Sandler returns as our favorite hockey-player-turned-golfer, now battling middle-aged stiffness, overly enthusiastic influencers, and a golf industry that’s somehow gotten even wilder. Reviews have generally agreed—while the film isn’t exactly Oscar bait, it delivers exactly what fans expect: plenty of laughs, outlandish scenarios, and a nostalgic nod to the original.

One of the best parts? The cameos. Oh boy, the cameos. There’s Shooter McGavin (Christopher McDonald), still smug, still hilarious, and still can’t putt to save his life. Then you’ve got appearances from Tiger Woods, Bill Murray (whose comedic timing remains impeccable), and even a surprise drop-in from none other than Bob Barker’s hologram, ready for round two against Happy.

The story itself is as outrageous as you’d hope. Happy gets drawn back into the competitive golf scene by a ridiculous yet irresistible premise: saving his beloved grandma’s retirement home again, now threatened by—you guessed it—a sinister corporate developer played delightfully over-the-top by Will Ferrell. The jokes land like a bucket of range balls, frequent and sometimes wildly off-target, yet somehow, that’s exactly why it works.

Critics agree the film isn’t about nuanced storytelling or thoughtful character development. It’s about watching Happy unleash his signature wind-up drive (still absurdly effective), laughably bad putting technique, and seeing Sandler gleefully poke fun at modern golf culture. Whether he’s navigating influencer-driven golf apparel or battling robotic caddies gone rogue, Happy’s misadventures remain true to his lovable, chaotic spirit.

In short, “Happy Gilmore 2” isn’t trying to win awards. It’s here for laughs, nostalgia, and to remind us that sometimes golf isn’t meant to be taken too seriously. So, grab your popcorn, practice your running swing, and prepare yourself for another ridiculous round with Happy. Just remember, the price is wrong if you don’t have a good time.

Catch you on the fairway (and at the movies), my friends!

They say golf is a game of mental fortitude, of unwavering focus, of meticulous planning. They say you must visualize the shot, commit to the swing, and execute with precision. And to them, I say, “Hogwash!” Or perhaps, “A flute with no holes, is not a flute. A donut with no hole, is a Danish.” Because, my friends, the true secret to lowering your score, to achieving that elusive state of golfing nirvana, is to simply not care. Not one whit. Not a single, solitary damn.

Think about it. When do you hit your best shots? Is it when you’re agonizing over every blade of grass, every gust of wind, every microscopic imperfection on the green? Or is it when you’re distracted, perhaps by a particularly interesting cloud formation, or the existential dilemma of whether to order a hot dog or a chili dog at the turn? It’s the latter, isn’t it? Because when you stop caring, you stop thinking. And when you stop thinking, you start playing golf.

The golf swing, in its purest form, is an act of instinct, a fluid motion unburdened by the shackles of conscious thought. But we, in our infinite human capacity for self-sabotage, insist on overthinking it. We analyze, we dissect, we intellectualize. We turn a simple act of hitting a ball into a complex mathematical equation, a philosophical treatise on the meaning of spin and trajectory. And what is the result? A hooked drive, a chunked iron, a three-putt that would make a novice weep.

But when you don’t care, a magical transformation occurs. The tension drains from your shoulders, the grip loosens, the mind clears. You swing, not with intent, but with a blissful indifference. The ball, sensing your newfound detachment, responds in kind. It soars, it draws, it fades, it lands precisely where it was always meant to be. It’s as if the ball itself is saying, “Finally! Someone who understands me! Someone who isn’t trying to force me into submission!”

Of course, this doesn’t mean you should actively try to hit bad shots. That would be caring, in its own twisted way. No, the art of not caring is a subtle one. It’s a state of detached engagement, a Zen-like acceptance of whatever the golf course throws at you. A bad bounce? Who cares. A missed putt? Such is life. A lost ball? Perhaps it’s off on a grand adventure, a journey of self-discovery. And in that detachment, in that blissful indifference, you will find a freedom that transcends the scorecard.

So, the next time you step onto the tee, take a deep breath. Let go of your expectations, your desires, your desperate need for perfection. Embrace the chaos. Embrace the absurdity. And most importantly, embrace the profound, liberating power of not caring. For in the gentle art of indifference, you will find not only a lower score, but a deeper, more meaningful connection to the game. Or at least, a more enjoyable round.

There’s a certain breed of golfer, a truly special individual, who believes that every swing, every putt, every moment on the course is an opportunity for unsolicited advice. They are the self-appointed gurus of the green, the unsolicited senseis of the sand trap. And while most people recoil from such an individual, I, Ty Webb, find a certain perverse charm in their relentless, often misguided, generosity. After all, what is golf if not a canvas for human folly, painted with strokes of well-intentioned, yet utterly useless, wisdom?

Consider the scenario: your playing partner, a man (or woman) of quiet desperation, is about to address the ball. Their brow is furrowed, their stance is tentative, their very soul is screaming for a moment of peace. And then, from the depths of your profound, albeit unrequested, knowledge, you unleash it: “Keep your head down!” Or, “Slow backswing!” Or, my personal favorite, delivered with a knowing wink, “Be the ball.” The effect is instantaneous. A subtle flinch. A barely perceptible sigh. The swing, already fraught with anxiety, becomes a tortured ballet of self-doubt. The ball, inevitably, finds its way into the deepest, darkest rough.

And that, my friends, is the art. The beauty of the unsolicited golf tip lies not in its efficacy, but in its disruption. It’s a gentle reminder that even in the serene confines of the golf course, chaos lurks. It’s a subtle assertion of dominance, a playful jab at the fragile ego of your fellow golfer. It’s a way of saying, without actually saying it, “I know more than you, even if I don’t.”

Of course, there are rules to this art. Never offer a tip when someone is actually asking for one; that would be far too helpful, and thus, entirely counterproductive. Always deliver your wisdom with an air of profound nonchalance, as if the secret to a perfect swing has just casually occurred to you while contemplating the existential dread of a missed putt. And most importantly, never, ever, acknowledge the catastrophic results of your advice. A shrug, a thoughtful nod, perhaps a mumbled, “Well, that’s golf,” is all that’s required.

So, the next time you’re on the course, and you see a fellow golfer struggling, resist the urge to be genuinely helpful. Instead, embrace the art of the unsolicited golf tip. For in the gentle torment of your playing partners, you will find a profound, if slightly mischievous, joy. And who knows, perhaps in their frustration, they will, inadvertently, discover their own path to enlightenment. Or at least, a new appreciation for silence.