Can’t believe another weekend behind us, and nothing to show for the past two days but less hair and lower hydration. Oh yes, and rage. Cold, impotent rage. Cause, a horrible thing happened this weekend. The … Ryder Cup Disaster!
That is, if you’re American. If you pull for the blokes across the pond, a rather jovial lot that enjoys their pints and fatty foods — as opposed to the largely sober, born-again Christian contingent that is the future of U.S. golf — Sunday was bloody brilliant!
Unfortunately, while I’d rather party with Team Europe — as opposed to group prayer with Team USA — at the end of the day I’m a patriot, and I really wanted the red, white and blue to get the cup back. I really did, even though most of the young U.S. golfers are more bland than sand. But they can play golf, and they did through Saturday, guided by the Lord and the blind confidence of the clueless. And on Saturday night, the saintly U.S. looked like a lock, with at 10-6 lead over their hedonistic opponents.
And I was happy. Very happy. A rare moment of bliss.
But then Sunday came. Sunday, when Coach Davis Love III, who I think was the prep-school villan in Scent of a Woman, seemingly got an early Christmas present when he was told the European number one, Rory McIlroy might not show up at the course for his tee time. Actually, shouldn’t have been able to show up!
What happened? The number one player in the world, Rory McIlroy, did what the Irish do best, and my guess is got shitfaced Saturday night with team Europe — and slept through his alarm clock, and thanks to Chicago traffic, was gonna miss his tee time — which would have given the U.S. the Cup. And I would have been so, so happy.
But that didn’t happen. Because of divine providence? Nope. Rory apparently has friends in Chicago. Very powerful friends. Friends that can drive through red lights. The Chicago Police Department.
Because the Chicago Police Department, best known for chasing the Blues Brothers, decided that they hate this country, and gave Rory a ride to the golf course. What?!!!
They really did. Sunday morning was not a good time to be a victim of crime in Chicago.
911 Operator: “911 …. what’s your emergency?”
Scared Woman: “A man with a knife is breaking into my house!”
911 Operator: “Okay, just hide for about thirty minutes, cause the officers in your area are driving an Irish golfer to the Ryder Cup.”
Scared Woman: “Really. I love golf. Graeme McDowell?”
911: “No, the young one. I’m not much of a golf fan, but I understand he’s very good.”
Scared Woman: “Rory. Yes, he’s amazing, and not bad on the eyes. Oh, excuse me … the man with a knife just kicked down my bedroom door, and is lunging at me. Aaaaghhhhh!!!!”
911 Operator: “Ma’am, I didn’t catch that last scream?”
Scared Woman: “Aaaaaghhh!”
911 Operator: “Okay, Ma’am, I’m gonna hang up now, cause apparently the officers driving the golfer are lost, and need directions. Good luck.”
That really could have happened! Thanks fucking Chicago Police. And of course, Rory after an espresso and a Jaeger Bomb, did what most number one players do … he kicked the crap out his opponent, and guaranteed the Cup will be part of an orgiastic tour of mayhem in the South of France for the next ten weeks. Cause the Euros know how to celebrate. They’re kinda awesome. I wish they played for us but … total bullshit.
Now to be fair, it wasn’t entirely the Chicago Police Department’s fault … cause, in theory, the U.S. team could have actually played decent golf on Sunday and put the drunken Euros away. But they didn’t. Why? It’s obvious.
Tiger Woods. Cause Tiger Woods wanted the U.S. to choke, so that his three days of shitty golf wouldn’t stand out. It’s true. Woods put a jinx on the whole team. Mr. Schadenfreude was in the house! Don’t believe me, take a look at the picture below … Tiger’s face during the Sunday match. He’s clearly focusing his mental powers — and I believe he has serious Telekinesis — to fuck up the U.S. team.
Sorry, I don’t really know where this post is going, other than venting about the Ryder Cup.
Not even mad about the Jets loss, cause they’re just kinda terrible, and I’m at peace with that, cause I know that they will bounce back once Rex Ryan packs on the pounds again. And Rex will. Cause he’s hungry. Really hungry. For ice-cream Sundays!
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