Earlier this week, when the wife of U.S. Mid-Amateur champion Sammy Schmitz launched a GoFundMe campaign to finance his preparation for the 2016 Masters, some observers shook their heads and marveled at the chutzpah. But turns out Schmitz isn’t the only golfer pandering for donations on the site. Extra Spin conducted a thorough search of GoFundMe.com and found several notable Tour pros and golf dignitaries passing the plate for everything from banana pudding to lessons with Butch Harmon. See for yourself…
Hello, world. Does anyone have Butch Harmon’s new cell phone number? I tried the old one but all I got was a recording saying, “Sorry, Tiger. Too late.” If you’ve got his digits, please pass them on. Along with a few bucks. I hear he’s now charging $1,000 an hour. Figure three hours would get me back on track.
I know what you’re thinking: with the Bubbacraft and the General Lee, doesn’t Bubbalicious have enough rides? But when you’re stuck in deeply arrested development, no amount of juvenile acquisitions is ever enough. So, what’s next for my insatiable inner-child? At first, I was gonna ask y’all to pitch in to help me snag the Batmobile. Or Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But then, the other night, Rickie and I were up late, eating candy corn and playing Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots, when he clicked on the tube and on came a rerun of that ’70s serial drama with the America’s Got Talent dude and that talking car. Kit. That’s the name. I loved the sleek lines and the bucket seats. But what really got me going was its voice, so rational and soothing, alerting its man to trouble and advising him on the best way to avoid it. Kinda like a good caddy should be—right, Ted Scott? Lol!
People say I carry myself with a maturity beyond my years. Unfortunately, that’s true of my hairline too. After winning the FedEx Cup, I thought I’d found the answer. But that experimental treatment in Sweden? Total scam. I should have talked to Bill Haas first. More well earned FedEx denaros down the drain. So now I’m back to square one and thinking I should join a club that would welcome me as a member. I don’t mean Augusta. I mean the one that costs $29.99 for a mail-order cream and a money-back guarantee. What do you say, folks? I may be an old soul, but the only baldness I really want to deal with are shaved down U.S. Open greens.
You know that stuff I’ve been saying about making America great again? Campaign mumbo-jumbo. What I really want to do is make Turnberry great again. With a roaring waterfall behind the 18th green! Don’t think I couldn’t pay for it myself. Only a loser couldn’t afford something like that. But I’m saving up to build a wall around Trump Bedminster.
Funny how things go: You spend so many years drinkin’, smokin’ and partyin’ like there’s no tomorrow and then you wake one morning in the bright light of a new day and realize, Holy crap, my pants are dreadful! How about a donation for some plain old khakis? Stretch waistband a plus.
Hi, my name’s Luke, and I’d like to clarify something: that quote you read from me about how I’m looking for someone “upbeat and energetic” was not an excerpt from an OK Cupid posting. It was meant, well, um, this is kind of embarrassing, but I got dumped. By my caddy. Maybe you heard. So now I need a few clams for a decent matchmaker. (Hey, I only made $1.03 million last season!) Likes: painting, fast greens, dapper clothing. Dislikes: long courses, rainy days, cranky caddies.
By adding me, Darla and Ginny as members, the good ol’ boys at Augusta finally lurched themselves into the 21st century. Time to do the same with the plumbing in the women’s locker room. (Urinals, guys—really?) If you can help me reach my goal, I promise I will do everything in my still considerable power to prevent tax hikes on the super rich.
As a lot of you probably know, my motto on the course and off has always been “go big or go home.” So this past weekend, I placed a small-ish wager (don’t tell Callaway!) on the Chargers with the hopes of paying off my insanely high tax bill. Bad news, gang: Bolts 20, Packers 27. Just need enough to tide me over through the weekend. Pay you back Monday. Swear!
In my nearly 80 years of life, I’ve hit more than 11 million golf balls, reeled off twice that many sit-ups and consumed enough wheatgrass smoothies to fill the Grand Canyon 22 times. In other words, enough is #&$!-ing enough! Here’s my proposal: All of you sloths pitch in and raise me $9.99 so I can finally taste the good life. By which I mean unlimited servings of Bourbon Street Chicken and banana pudding.