14 07 2008

Can a motherfuckin goose go to no mini golf place without some drunk dad thinking he’s part of the course? GOD. DAMN. IT.

This is the end of a parlor trick. The beginning was him shoving the ball up his ass.

It’s not like I can practice my short game at Augusta, is it—the specist ne’er-do-well hatemongers there aren’t taking their anti-waterfowl proviso off the books anytime soon, class action suit or no. And really, even if I were a lifelike animatronic bird strutting around the greens and “pretending” to putt, would it be prudent or wise to start poking me with a club? Right when I’m about to sink a hole-in-one on the 18th with the laughing Clown Head and score a free game? So that instead I drive the ball out onto the highway, where it cracks the windshield of a jeep whose driver pulls over and shakes me down for $500?

Even Tiger’s dad never pulled that shit.




3 07 2008

Caligulation (n.) — 1. a state of perverted elation at something unspeakable 2. a wantonly depraved and hedonistic vacation 3. a deliberation in which one tries to select the greater of two evils

Starting on the birthday of this gloriously tasteless nation and continuing through the next week, Caligula vs. Nero will be going on a “Caligulation.” The second definition. Although I’ll be experiencing plenty of the first and third. Take care until July 14, you twisted mofos, and beware of unicorns.