For those of you out there who read this drivel every month, I have news. Such are the delusions of success I've been having over my TV show that I've decided to follow the lead of actual A-listers in TV land and make a few demands. Part of the problem is that I've become plains-drifter weatherbeaten yet sensitively vulnerable and metrosexual, in a Clint Eastwood-crossed-with-Ricky Martin kind of way. So I'm going to turn diva for a while, and see how that works.
Last year about this time I was like a drunken Spaniard being dragged on the horns of a bull dilemma through the Pamplona of my own mind, trying to decide how best to harness my considerable creative talents beyond trying to come up with yet another clever description of the path a golf ball might take as it plunges toward a patch of perfectly snipped sod.
I and my beloved beagle,Ziggy, were struggling to find an outlet that would showcase our real agenda, which was to make Oprah look like Charlie Sheen. We wanted to be television moguls, a large pair of Tinseltown titans, bigger than Al Gore's ass and Keith Olbermann's brain put together. S o unless you were beamed up into an alien spaceship and repeatedly rectally interfered with, you've seen every one of my Golf Channel shows (named, oddly enough, Feherty).
Now that I've arrived, so to speak, I have a few new rules for all of you peons out there who suddenly seem to think that I'm your new BFF. Starting January 1, 2012, there is to be no more eye contact with me or Ziggy, the worst hunting dog in Texas. And, if you're lucky enough to be in a room with us, don't think it'll be fine to look directly at anything of mine, unless it's my shoes.
Likewise, if youspot me at Spago in Las Vegas, the Polo Lounge in L.A., or the Diamond Grill in Akron, don't think it's OK to just pop over and visit. I don't care if you like the damn show or not, and I don't want to know your opinion. You may walk by without stopping and mutter to your friends that you think it might be me sitting there, but don't think I'm going to acknowledge you in any way. There might be a life-size cutout of me in the kitchen with which you may have your photograph taken if you are tall enough. And one more thing about restaurants: I don't care if you made your reservations at Nobu seven months ago, when I arrive I'm sitting right down on top of the best table, and Ziggy will hop on to the best seat at it, even if your mail-order Russian wife's ass is on it already.
Okay, so I think we have that covered. Now, to all of you TV-show bookers out there. I will require: (1) A stretch Bugatti Veyron limo from my house to the FBO at the private airport. (2) A new Gulfstream G650 jet, or at least a Citation X. (3) Ziggy will require a relief tube with funnel, since he doesn't like to sit down to pee, he's not tall enough to reach, and he doesn't have the stream strength to make the arch. (4) Somebody, preferably you, to meet me at the airport. No fat, outof- work screenwriters holding signs with my name spelled incorrectly. (5) A personal security detail of off-duty Army Rangers, Green Berets, Navy Seals, and MarSOC s driving an Air Force JTAC , in case I need close air support. (6) A suite no, wait, a floor at the best boutique hotel in town. Fruit (preferably still growing), flowers on every horizontal surface, heavy hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, and Evian in Paul Smith bottles at precisely 34 degrees. Same thing in the Green Room. (7) An outrageous gift bag FedExed to my home I don't want to have to carry all that crap around with me.
All right, then, I'm glad we got that out of the way. Now all I have to do is wait and see if the Golf Channel is going to renew the show for another year or replace me with Big Break White House: Escape from Washington, in which case you can all go back to throwing things at me and calling me a moron.