You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Late for Pro-Am, Furyk Is Ineligible for the Barclays
GREG MITCHELL/Associated Press
Jim Furyk, the sixth-ranked player in the world, took full responsibility for the cellphone fiasco.
11:57 a.m. | Updated
Looks like a typical day at the office for Jim “Fuck up” Furyk with another notch on the belt for the guy that has been a major disappointment for throngs of young, impressionable followers.
Asked how in the Hell he could possibly over-sleep for a job that most people would eagerly give their left nut to participate in, Furyk responded, “Look Greg, when we were in Vegas last November did I give you any shit when you accidentally killed that albino midget with my fairway wood?”. Well, this unbiased, unflappable reporter cannot be flapped, “Sure we can make it all about me but how do explain the simple fact that because you obviously require more beauty rest than most, you lost out on a chance at a million dollar purse?”
“Sure Greg, 1 million dollars right? How about the time you complained to me after shelling out a million dollars ordering the entire inventory of your wife’s experimental vegan-porn DVDs just to get it off the open market?” Furyk moaned.
He was starting to get on my nerves. I really should never have confided in someone with such a fucked up backswing. Furyk continued, “And how about explaining last night: crashing the Furyk man-cave at 4AM hopped up on God-knows-what Jonesing for a go at my 1977 Playboy pinball machine and you didn’t even freaking leave until you got the high score.”
I have to admit I must have blacked that one out (even though it happened like 6 hours ago). And though it probably explains his late wake up, it was still a low blow.
Okay, apparently my persistence was really bumming him out but this relentless reporter was not about to relent. After all, I owe you readers answers. “Jim, do you think maybe you can answer ONE simple question without projecting unto me?”
“Fine. What?” Furyk asked while removing his Johnny Walker cap to reveal a swastika I just now remembered Sharpie’ing to his oblong dome.
“Hey, can I borrow your car again tonight? I promised Jen that I would show her what the ceiling of the Trans-Am T-top looks like. Wacka wacka.”. While pantomiming thrusting and slapping motions for emphasis.
“Fuck you Greg, this interview is over!” he snarled.
“So, that’s a “no” then?” I was genuinely disappointed.
He tossed me the keys, “Nah, I can’t be a hater”.
Well, I can sucka!