Hey! I might seem thick-skinned and cynical to some of you, but the truth is, underneath all the blowhard rhetoric I’m a sensitive soul, and easily wounded. So zip it, you morons, or if you have to whine, at least try to do so in a literate fashion. I mean really, some of the e-mails that are gloatingly forwarded to me by the idiot editors of this rag are so contemptuous, and unworthy of publication, I sometimes feel compelled to complain about myself, just so I can read some decent criticism. Then, out of the blue, comes a letter from my kind of critic, and I find myself in a position where someone else has written my column for me! I love this country!
Of course, everyone who has ever written to me, has always said that they will never read the magazine again, so the chances are, this will fall on deaf ears, or blind eyes, or swollen whatevers. But for the record, just in case some of you are lying swine, this is the sort of thing you should be writing, you poor misguided fools!
Dear Mr. Feherty:
What on earth were the editors thinking, when they hired you, you drivel-scribbling bog-trotter? I have been a subscriber to GOLF MAGAZINE for more than 37 years, and never in that span did I feel the urge to put pen to paper for the purpose of verbal castigation, until the day that some cretin allowed you to weasel your way between these formerly pristine sheets. Now, I find myself writing a letter of complaint every month, and wasting time I could be spending upon something useful, such as sharpening every knife in the house, or lancing boils down at my practice. Today, when I turned to the back page, I found an epistle so vile, it almost made my bile boil. For fear of accidental propagation, I steadfastly refuse to quote your ghastly prose, but this I will say:
I have been a fan of golf, the written word, yachting, and naturism for many years, so imagine my horror as I read your offering from last month in which you butcher three of these four categories. Indeed, if stupidity is an art form, then you sir would appear to be the Michelangelo of our time. For your enlightenment, quality individuals such as I do not need to be kept abreast of the history of your digestive tract. Furthermore, I think to print derogatory statements about anyone who elects to spend their free time alone on a yacht, in the middle of the Caribbean, is entirely superfluous to the requirements of any reputable periodical, even if that person has been tied to the mast, with his trousers around his ankles. Also, I would like to know how you knew about that (and any other hobbies you may have).
I have spent many months at sea in quiet contemplation, with one of my greatest rewards being the tears of joy upon my wife’s face when I have returned to dry land. (Thank heaven for her sturdy friend Muffin, who always seems to be there for her when I am away.) You on the other hand, mock the life of the solo mariner, as if you have some knowledge of how it feels to sit with your legs dangling over the edge of the deck, playing Wagner on the soprano tuba to the migrating squirrelfish that dance around your brightly painted toenails. I think sir, that you have not.
Perhaps Mr. Feherty, you would be well served to spend a little time in such solitary confinement, not at sea, but in an institution specifically designed for rehabilitation of heathen orators such as yourself. You most certainly should be separated from your offspring, and allowed no further influence, lest one or more of the poor children should later in life find themselves scrabbling frantically at the same greased flagpole to which you now cling. It is clear that you rise barely above the scum-encrusted cesspool of your own demented imagination. I feel sorry for Willard, your dog.
I canceled my subscription to your publication some months ago, but to my dismay, some imbecile renewed it, and sent it to me as a kind of twisted gift. I was hoping against hope my letters might make a difference in the quality of your work, but sadly, all I see is a slow deterioration in standards, and a callous disregard for journalistic integrity that is all too common in our society today. In order to figure out your moral standards, all one has to do is read any of your mindless commentary about that Tiger Woods chap, who is another blot on the formerly fair landscape of this great game. Your sycophantic, groveling support of such a foul-mouthed upstart makes me queasier than I’ve ever been in a 30-foot swell, after a supper of tripe and anchovies. Nobody likes a showoff, and if that is the way the game is headed, then I’m taking up the Peruvian nose flute, changing my name to “Smedley,” and spending more time afloat.
While I’m up and running so to speak, here’s another thing that throws the cut of my jib off kilter. Is it just me, or do both you and that horrible McCord chap lose about 75 points off your respective intelligence quotients every time you are in close proximity to one another? I live right next door to two elderly ladies, and I swear, when you two morons are on the air, it’s like listening to one of their damned bridge parties through the letterbox. If you asked me to, I would wear nothing but a schoolboy’s cap, and give you both a damned good thrashing with a jockey’s whip, but what are the chances of not being arrested for that, in this namby-pamby day and age? When I think back to the good old days, when I used to get naked and play the cello in front of the television, it brings back memories of Henry Longhurst, and Brent Musburger, Jack Whitaker, and Judy Garland, who is thankfully still at ABC. It almost makes me want to weep. Sadly, I am now incapable of tears, due to the constant lashing of salt water in my face, but that doesn’t mean I don’t lament for the kind of quality in golf broadcasting we had back then. An occasional period of silence was not a sin, and no one felt it necessary to bastardize the English language. I honestly believe that if Mr. McCord could breathe through his ears, he might never stop mangling the Queen’s English. This alone is a crime against humanity, and I’m sure to be as hyper as he appears, he has to be on smack caffeine or something similar.
Mr. Feherty, I doubt if any of this advice will reach its intended target, as nothing I have written in the past has ever elicited a response, but let me close by saying this: I intend to write to the chairman of every company that advertises in your magazine. I will warn them of the peril in which they place themselves, every time their corporation appears to be associated with the likes of you. Then, I am going to contact the Chief Wizard, (I mean the head of our lodge) and also every religious leader in the country. (Except the Baptist and Jewish ones, whom I do not trust.) I am going to ask them to join with me in a gesture of solidarity against the kind of trash journalism displayed inside your back cover. From now on, we are not paying any attention to this magazine, and instead reading, “Naturism, Golf and Yachting!” which is a splendid new publication, filled with wholesome articles, and advertisements for all kinds of terrific outdoor stuff, including a full range of rubberware, and a matching spatula and grease-proof thong set of my own design, for barbecuing on those choppy days up on deck.
Dr. Norman Hackett-Daly
Of course, I’d have to reply.
Dear Dr. Daly,
Thank you so much for your letter, which is the finest I have ever received. I have an admission to make. It was I who renewed your subscription. You’re welcome.
cc: Gary McCord