**Florida Man Uses 'Divine Right' Defense After Allegedly Stealing Golf Cart to 'Spread the Gospel'**
Listen, I know we all love a good Florida Man story. It’s the comfort food of the internet—reliable, ridiculous, and usually involves a gator or a guy named "Cletus" who’s had one too many White Claws. But today, the Sunshine State has blessed us with a truly premium cut of chaos that’s so unhinged, it actually makes me question if God is real, or if He’s just trolling us from the heavens.
Let me set the scene for you. Major Jason Watson. That’s not a rank, by the way—that’s his actual first name. He’s a 51-year-old man from Palm Coast, Florida, who apparently woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and thought, "You know what? The Great Commission says 'Go ye into all the world,' but it doesn't specify *how* to get there. And I’m feeling like a hole-in-one today."
So, according to the Flagler County Sheriff’s Office (aka the people who have to file these reports while fighting the urge to laugh-cry), Major allegedly walked onto the Palm Harbor Golf Club, hopped into a golf cart that *did not belong to him*, and peaced out like he was escaping a midlife crisis. Not for a joyride, not for a quick game of "find the nearest Publix," but to go door-to-door to "spread the word of God."
Oh, you thought stealing a golf cart was the peak of this story? Sweet summer child. Buckle up.
When the cops finally tracked down this modern-day apostle of the links, Major didn't just say "my bad" and hand over the keys. No, no. That would be too normal. Instead, he dropped the most galaxy-brain defense I’ve heard since "the dog ate my homework" evolved into "I am the dog." According to the arrest report—which I have read three times, and I’m still not sure if I’m in a fever dream—Major told deputies that he was acting under "divine orders." He claimed God told him to take the cart so he could "minister to the community."
Let’s just sit with that for a second.
This man, Major, looked a police officer in the eye and essentially said, "Sorry, officer, but I’m on a mission from God. The cart is just my chariot. Also, do you know Jesus?" I mean, I’ve heard of "faith-based initiatives," but this is just "faith-based grand theft auto" (or GTA: Golf Cart Edition).
Now, look. I’m not a theologian. I’m just a guy with a Twitter account and a deep, abiding love for schadenfreude. But I’m pretty sure the Ten Commandments have a pretty clear rule about this. It’s somewhere between "Thou shalt not kill" and "Thou shalt not steal." I think it’s literally the one that says, "Don’t take stuff that isn’t yours, you absolute turnip." But hey, maybe Major’s Bible has a footnote that says, "Exception: If the golf cart is a 2018 Yamaha Drive2 and the owner is a Boomer who doesn’t tip the cart attendant, go forth and borrow."
The best part? The cops didn't buy it. Shocking, I know. They charged him with grand theft of a motor vehicle (or, as I like to call it, "grand theft of a glorified lawnmower"). He’s currently sitting in the slammer, presumably trying to convert his cellmate.
This whole saga is a masterclass in "Florida Logic." It’s the perfect storm of entitlement, delusion, and a total lack of self-awareness. Major didn't just steal a cart. He stole a cart *with purpose*. He wasn't a thief; he was a missionary on a budget. He was a disciple with a lead foot and a penchant for petty larceny.
And let’s be real—this is the kind of energy that makes the rest of the country point and laugh, but also secretly worry. Because what if this catches on? What if every time someone wants to do something unhinged, they just blame the Big Man Upstairs?
"Sorry I keyed your Honda Civic, bro. God told me your parking was a sin."
"Officer, I didn't rob the 7-Eleven. I was performing a divine redistribution of beef jerky."
"Your Honor, my client isn't guilty of indecent exposure. He was just letting the Lord's light shine on the local Target parking lot."
It’s a slippery slope, people. And Major Jason Watson is currently riding that slope on a stolen golf cart while yelling Bible verses.
But wait, it gets even more poetic. This happened in Palm Coast, which is basically the retirement capital of Florida. It’s a place where the average speed limit is 25 mph and the biggest crime is usually someone leaving their lawn chair out past 4 PM. And yet, Major decided to bring the apocalypse to the golf course. He’s a one-man wrecking crew for the HOA bylaws.
The real question is: What was he going to say when he showed up at someone’s door? "Hello, ma'am, have you accepted the Lord as your savior? Also, do you have a place to park my stolen golf cart? It’s a two-seater, so it’s not a flex, but it gets me from A to B."
And let’s not ignore the symbolism. A *golf cart*. Of all the vehicles to steal for a holy mission. Not a Ford F-150 to haul plywood for a church renovation. Not a minivan to pick up the youth group. A golf cart. The vehicle of choice for people who are too lazy to walk to the 19th hole. It’s the least intimidating missionary mobile since "The Bible Wagon" broke an axle.
I honestly can’t decide if Major is a genius or a
Final Thoughts
Based on the available reporting, Major Jason Watson’s case underscores a grim truth that many of us in this trade have seen too often: the military’s vaunted “warrior ethos” can become a double-edged sword when a professional soldier transitions back to civilian life, where the rules of engagement are far murkier. Whether he is a victim of a flawed system that failed to address his trauma or a perpetrator who weaponized his training, the lack of clear, substantive updates from official channels leaves a dangerous vacuum for speculation. Ultimately, the silence around this story speaks volumes, reminding us that accountability is not just about a verdict, but about the transparency of the process that gets us there.