Season’s Bleatings

It’s upon me again, the most depressing day of the year. Christmas Day pips my birthday for that honor because I’ve now reached that stage in life where I can choose at least one of my own birthday presents, which means I’ll get one thing I actually want, rather than a bunch of boring crap I need. Like the Bowflex Ultra that She Who Must Be Obeyed gave me last year. It took me several months to get her to send it back, and that was only after she realized I would never attain the necessary strength to put it together.

My favorite gifts are from my daughter, Erin, who still makes small things for her dad with her very own beautiful, podgy little hands. (Though I’ve got to be honest and say I’d take a really nice 20-gauge, too.) So this year, dear readers, in the spirit of Christmas, I thought I’d make something just for you with my own podgy hands. I hope that at least some of you like it, and that those who don’t can cope with your obvious personality disorders.

‘Tis The Silly Season

If I were the fairy on top of the tree,
Despite all the pine needles up my hy-nee
(Granted, we’re off to a fairly poor start
But so far, so good-I’ve not mentioned a fart)
To Tiger I’d give Oregon (like he’d give two farts;
He now owns Bermuda, St. Kitts and St. Bart’s).
For Vijay and Teddy, who own IMG
(Which pisses off Tiger and terrifies me),
A mobile, inflatable, suede practice tee,
And to show how I lurrve them, nude photos of me.
A green jacket for Ernie, for his frustrating year,
With pockets to hold at least 17 beers.
An electronic nipple-ring’s what Phil is getting,
So Amy can shock him and say, “Down boy, no betting!”
For John Daly, another Open at St. Andy’s. What a plus!
He could buy himself spinners for the wheels on his bus.
For Jim Nantz, who stays calm when we’re all in a lather,
With a wave of my wand he’d be in for Dan Rather.
Bill Macatee, best-looking man in TV,
Gets hair dye to last him till he’s 83.
For Lundquist and Enberg, who’ve been on the air
Since Ali was Christian and Bradshaw had hair,
I’d give two pairs of knees and two matching bathchairs.
Lanny Wadkins? I’d give him the sense just to quit.
How long can he keep playing that kind of s–t?
For Oosty a chest wig, flared pants and some flowers;
Then he can pass for a big Austin Powers.
For McCord (what a princess, he’s so hard to buy for),
Rubber spatulas, strange pants… and slingbacks to die for.
Two things he must have, and the first is a pup,
The second? The good sense to shut the hell up.
Bobby Clampett? Not golf balls; some marbles instead,
Or a curative blow to the back of his head.
Peter Kostis, my friend who knows all ’bout my job,
Gets a whole day at work with no shouts of “Hey, Bob!”
Tim Finchem‘s a tough one, and I don’t know why,
But I think that I’d give him a
South Park necktie,
So the next time the pros whined, he’d stand up and cry,
“Zip it, you grassholes

“But what of this fat, bearded Feher-y,” you’re thinking,
“With the tree up his arse and his lights all a-blinking?
“No, no, my dear readers, don’t worry ’bout me.
The truth is that I’d do this back page for free.
It’s the stiffs at
GOLF MAG who are now looking solemn.
Merry Christmas to all–I got paid for this column!

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