A ShutFace Original
‘Twas the week of Christmas, and all thro’ golf,
Tour news was silent as they all took the weekend off;
The Mickelsons were counting income for the IRS,
With hopes to hide some of it in their mattress;
The Days were nestled all snug in their bed,
But all Jason could think about was Christmas morning head; (scroll down to Day on list)
And Ellie on her Twitter, and Jason sans mullet,
Were settling their brains on his run at a green jacket;
When deep in my pocket alarms beeped and buzzed with clatter,
It was merely my feed tweeting that Kate Upton grew fatter.
I threw down my phone in disgust with one thrash,
Then Googled Paulina just to re-hash.
The moon on her breasts with tan lines white as snow,
Me curious of the feeling that many men before DJ are lucky to know;
When what to my wondering thoughts should appear,
But 2014 majors for Tiger and……Mike Weir?
With Tiger’s balky driver, and smoother tempo not-so quick,
I knew at that moment Valhalla could do the trick.
More rapidly his highlights of eagles and birdies came,
Upon dumping Lindsey once her knee yet again went lame;
Now! Destiny, now! Cinnamon, now! Candy, and Vixen,
“On! Misty, oh! Sunshine, oh! Desiree get strippin!
“To the top of the pole! to the back room couch!
“Dance on my dick until I say ouch!”
As dry-humps end and spring comes by,
Tiger dons his green jacket and matching tie;
Up to Augusta for the Champions Dinner he flew,
Where I predict Adam Scott will serve fried kangeroo;
And then without taking a penalty drop,
TW will finish 3rd behind Day and Scott.
The media will say his game won’t come around,
They seem to find enjoyment kicking him when he is down;
He’ll rebound as always after a late spring break,
Might even snag major 15 at Hoy Lake;
Now back to the story I started us on,
I had to clear my mind to remove the images of Vonn,
Next year will be the year we’ll claim Rory is back,
Especially after an early season 2nd in Abu Dhabi to GMac;
Girls say “his eyes – how they twinkle! his freckles how merry,
His cheeks are like roses, his nose like a cherry”;
I say don’t bore me with how the mick looks,
Just tell me he’s cured his driver of snap hooks;
The Ryder Cup looms in the fall like daybreaks first light,
But with Polter and Sergio, is it more like a catfight?
Captain Watson surely can’t let the U.S. lose again,
But nothing is certain when dealing with McGinley in Scotland:
Bitch Tits’ return to Pinehurst could be oh so grand,
Though he’ll look like he’s spent too much time at one of his hamburger stands;
I’m visioning him chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
Of course I’ll laugh seeing him in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and signed glove for the fan his tee shot smacked in the head,
Soon gave me the inkling that we all had something to dread;
He spoke not a word but looked like he was about to crap,
It was the 72nd hole of the Open, could he get his ball back on the map?
Bones yelled “lay-up”, but that’s just not his nature,
Phil was on stage and this is his theatre;
He lunged with his Phrankenwood, think Winged Foot Redux,
Oh Phil, oh Bones, not again you stupid fucks!
But this one was different as he knew it would be,
And Bones made him cry with a Payne Stewart memory;
After his final putt sunk he grabbed the trophy and took off in his courtesy car,
Knowing with his new big check in sight the tax man couldn’t be far;
Lucky for us as he drove out of sight-
Steve Sands caught him saying “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”