A few really cool things have happened to me in the year since I became an American citizen. I’ve noticed that here in America, it’s possible to buy, sell, or pay to have removed pretty much anything. For example, I paid Dr. Wade Barker here in Dallas to take about 70 pounds from me. What anyone would want with 75 percent of my stomach pouch I have no idea, but hey, whatever floats your boat. There is a huge Asian market for rhino horn and tiger willies, etc., so maybe that’s where my gut went – you know, as a lucky shower cap for some wealthy Chinese lady or something. I might even have saved a lucky tiger from losing his endangered Johnson. I hope so…
Having destroyed a series of pickup trucks over the last several years, I’ve now gone ahead and bought one that, after a few minor structural and engine modifications, combined with some shipyard-grade welding and a pair of matching 12,500-pound winches front and back, will now utterly destroy anything that it cannot either pick up or tow away. And yes, I did have to add a larger fuel cell, and no, it didn’t exactly reduce the size of my carbon footprint, which yes, was already bigger than Al Gore’s ass. Suck my fumes, you hybrid carnophobes! The way that some of those who profess to be human beings are acting lately, our species is infinitely less likely to last as long as the fossil fuel we have left. Never mind the stem-cell debate – humans should be breeding with dolphins, or Border collies, or some of the many other creatures that are clearly smarter than us.
But just in case you thought this entire article was going to be one long and morbid forecast of apocalyptic disaster, here is a cheerier note! Well, it’s cheerier for me, at least, and there’s an outside chance it’s not another sign of impending doom for mankind anyway. I have sold a TV show to Golf Channel, which, if my timing is right, should be just about ready to hit the airwaves, in violation of the sensibilities of both the average golf nut and innocent civilian alike.
Yes pal – it’s you I’m talking about. The fact that you’ve read to here is proof that you’re probably okaaay, but you’re definitely not RIGHT. You are one of my people – a middle-aged, overweight, incontinent-yet-still-courageous-enough-to-be-flatulent, probably (as a result) divorced, cynical, possibly chemically dependent and at least occasional drunk, who likes but doesn’t play football, basketball or baseball anymore, if in fact you ever did.
Yeah, I know – all of you dilwads who right now are writing furious-yet-futile letters to my editor are freaked out because I’m right on the money, yeah? You see, when I work on the sport of announcing, some think I am in an insanely focused golf trance, totally oblivious to the outside world, and are mesmerized by my staggering ability to ignore their close-range stage whispers. Of course, this is the kind of Nimrod who doesn’t notice I’m wearing a headset, which at all times is filled with the telecast and myriad other voices that only I can hear, so perhaps it’s simply my ability to stagger that impresses them…but no matter – I digress. All along, I have been paying attention, so enough of this, “Fair Way!”
I consider it my civic duty to provide those who watch and play this stupid damned game with insulting, sometimes disturbing, and occasionally downright moronic-yet-strangely-interesting crap that other sports simply cannot deliver. I want to mix golfers and their clubs with snipers and their guns and see who wins that contest. Haha! I want to show black and white footage of tweedy old coots in ancient hickory-stained grudge matches, and voice over what I imagine they must have said to each other.
I want to interview not so much the players, but some of the people who form the exoskeleton of a PGA Tour event, like the observer at the drug test. Who applies for that job, and why? Who wouldn’t want to know? Or the 97-year-old volunteer who for the last 40 years has stood on the same grassy knoll in the same pair of ridiculous red fart-collectors we Americans call “knickers,” with matching knee socks and an angry argyle, staring bitterly and waving the same “Quiet Please” sign at the same crowd of disrespectful beer- and mustard-stained peckerheads that has always totally ignored him.
And what’s more, from my newly formed Academy of lower learning, Feherty University (or FU for short), I will be dispensing tiny yet invaluable suppositories of insight into how you, my dear, dear readers, can deal with the mental anguish that is caused by playing our beloved game. As for the mental anguish caused by watching my TV show? You’re all on your own for that one – and don’t say you weren’t warned.