Thursday, September 20, 2007

Dear Tiger Woods, pt. 2

Dear Mr. Woods:

Grow a pair of balls. Yes, I said it. Balls. You need 'em. Don't give me this, "Oh, but I win all these majors and am the fiercest competitor since MJ." Bull-fucking-squadoosh. A real competitor, nay, MAN, would put dick to ass in the name of AMERICA. Shove it down these lil' bitches' throats for Christ's sake. Don't stand up there afterwards and be like, "well, the field was tough today, they really gave me a run for my money." Say what we all know/want you to say. Get up there and be like, "I'm a pimp. Basically [I run the business side of a small medical research company] the rest of the field couldn't touch my billion dollar ass. I was so much better than the field that I could have given my 3-6 irons a rest because I was hitting every drive 350+. I showed a field of PGA vets my dick and they all shriveled in a 4-hour Cialis coma."

See, wasn't that better? It's getting boring hearing everyone talk about how great you are and how you are a class act on and off the course. Fuck that. We all know you want to pinch Mickelson's Mickeltits. We all know you want to lodge a 4 iron in Vijay's skull. We all know you want to have Rory Sabbatini secretly kidnapped so you can torture him long and slow-like. Hell, we want that too (and are volunteering our services on that last one, just kidding, but seriously we'll kidnap Rory and have our (i.e. my) way with his smokin' hot wife). So just pull your Dynamic Gold shafts out of your ass and start bitch-slappin' every honky golfer's nutsack in a glorious display of links dominance. We beg of you.

Hugh McSnatchercraft

P.S. The van is gassed up. Just sayin'

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