Hung over and with their minds all fogged up, the gruesome golf foursome stumbles to the first tee for the second round of The God-Awful Golf Open. Part of that foursome is none other than Stephen A. Smith.
“Damn I feel like crap,” said Tiger. “Haven’t partied like that since the night I had my affair and then the next day crashed into my Orlando mansion fire hydrant. Remember that? My Swedish wife chased me out of the house. And in my fear of getting hit by her, I rammed into the hydrant.
“I’m getting too old to party like we did last night,” he added. “It’s weird, but smoking all that pot last night made me lose motivation to break Jack’s record of 18 Major titles.”
“We all remember,” said TB. “The whole world remembers the hundreds of thousands of women you had relationships with. You and Wilt took sex into the stratosphere. As far as your motivation, don’t worry, I’m losing interest in playing pro football. The pot is making me not care about football the way Ricky Williams stopped caring about football.”
Meanwhile, in the TV booth behind the first green, Stephen A. fumes alone in a soundproof room. He’s yelling and screaming and stammering around:
“I can’t believe this. I really can’t. Why am I in this room where no one can hear me? This is atrocious and despicable. I’m the spectacular and scintillating soul brother, Stephen A. Who do these golf people think they’re messing with, sticking me in this booth where no one can hear me screaming and yelling? Ain’t foolin’ ’round. I’m ticked off, plain and simple. Ain’t talkin’ to nobody, not today and not tomorrow. Not playin’ around.”
He calls Charles Barkley. Sir Charles is providing color commentary from the 18th green booth, which isn’t soundproof because he and other broadcasters don’t yell nearly as loudly as Stephen A. And Chuck gets to sit there for three hours until the only foursome in the tournament reaches the 18th tee, so it’s a good payday for minimal effort.
“What the hell is goin’ on, Chuck? How dare TNT put me in this Outback Steak House location? Ain’t nothin’ happenin’ on the damn first tee. I’m being monumentally marginalized.”
“Golfers want quiet when they play,” said Sir Charles. “No one believes you can stay quiet. You never have. I can’t help you with this one. You’re on your own, Stephen A. I’m not your role model. This time this brother can’t help another brother.”
The golfing foursome arrives at the first green.
“Hey, that’s Stephen A. in the booth,” said TB. “I can’t hear him. I see him by the booth window screaming at us, but there’s no sound.”
“I had him put there,” said Tiger. “I run the PGA Tour and told them I didn’t want Stephen A. to be heard by any of the golfers. I threatened to not play in this flakey foursome unless they stuck him in a soundproof booth for the entire tournament.”
“How did you make it happen?” asked TB.
“Sportface took care of the details. He’s my hitman.”
“Damnit, I bet Sportface set me up in this horrifically horrible dichotomous predicament,” said Stephen A. “I’m gonna get that fat boy Sportface and mess him up. He be messin’ with the wrong Stephen A.”
Sportface sits next to Barkley in the booth near the 18th green.
“You better watch out, Sportface,” said Barkley. “Stephen A. is coming after you.”
Sportface keeps typing:
And then Stephen A. called his attorney and said: “We got to sue Sportface. He’s defaming my character on the Sammy Sportface Baby Boomer Brotherhood Blog.”
“But he’s got no money,” said the lawyer, Drew Rosenhaus. “He runs a business with no customers. And writes a blog that no one reads. It would cost us more to sue him than the money we could take out of his Limited Liability Corporation bank account.”
“I don’t care, damnit,” said Stephen A. “I will not let this Sportface guy bring me down. No one brings down the splendiferous Stephen A. Plain and simple. Sue Sportface to smithereens.”
To be continued…
Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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