So the inglorious golf grudge match pitting Bill Belichick against Tom Brady and Tiger Woods against Phil Mickelson marches on with malevolent interpersonal feelings. The environment reeked of raccoon doo doo.
When we last covered this stop and start match about a week ago, the foursome partied recklessly in the clubhouse. Yet, egotistical tensions twisted the air into a knot.
This disconcerting debauchery played out soon after Antonio Brown crashed the air balloon in the second-hole sand trap to the left of the green. Ricky Williams came along for the ride with a stash for all the fellas.
When the balloon made sand fall, the four golfers had grown agitated because they couldn’t stop insulting each other. Phil had grown weary thinking up bets on everything and anything. His gambling endorphins subsided for the first time in 30 years. And the golf got as boring as a cinder block tutorial.
So we pick things up in the third round. Nothing happens except more immature men behaving like bastards. They drink and toke a ton in the clubhouse afterward but that’s not news anymore and it’s lazy writing, according to Paro.
In the fourth round, the foursome stagger to the 18th green, a brow-beaten band of bandits. These men all have come to terms with the reality that they are destined for purgatory at best, and more likely eternal Hell for the hundreds of thousands of mortal sins they have committed in their lives.
“These guys are turrible human beings,” says TNT analyst Charles Barkley from the 18th hole booth. There he crams a half dozen pork sandwiches down his pie hole while commenting on the action.
“They’re also turrible golfers. This has been the most turrible time I have ever had at a golf course or anywhere else. The clubhouse is the only thing that isn’t turrible about this besides the pork sandwiches, and even that partying is pretty turrible. Too much bickering and not enough talk about me and my greatness and the fact that I’m nobody’s role model.”
From his soundproof booth where he has been locked since the four-man tourney began, Stephan A. keeps yelling obscenities and exaggerations into the two-foot-thick glass window. It is like when a bear goes number two in the woods but no one hears it.
“Damnit I’ve been in this slackassward soundproof booth for dillions of days and I’m telling you, plain and simple, somebody’s gonna have to pay the great Stephen A.,” he said.
On the 18th green, Brady and Belichick both leave themselves 11-foot putts. Through 71 holes their scores are even. If one misses and other makes, the latter wins, and vice versa. Bragging rights forevermore to the victor.
Mickelson bets Tiger $100 million that Brady will make it while Belch chokes, which makes sense because to belch is one step removed from choking. Tiger calls Mickelson a lightweight and cheap.
“Make it $500 million,” says Tiger. “I bet Belch makes it and Brady misses.”
Barkley barges out of the TNT booth and lumbers onto the green, all 300 pounds of the mound round of basketball.
“Wait I love to gamble even though I’m turrible at it,” he says. “I’ve been to Vegas hundreds of times and lost hundreds of millions of jack. What’s the wager on these putts?”
Always on top of fluctuating betting details and amounts, Phil says: “I bet $500 million that Brady makes it and Belch misses. Tiger bets $500 million that Belch converts and Brady chokes.”
“Count me in,” said Sir Charles. “I got Brady winning this. He’s the greatest of all time besides Muhammad Ali and me on the Dream Team in ‘92. Tiger, you’ll never be the GOAT. You let your libido ruin your chances.”
Brady hovers over his putt. He takes his backswing and strokes the ball. On it rolls towards the hole. It’s three inches away. Looks good – and in. Just like the way he hits receivers in the Super Bowl for winning touchdowns when big bank is on the table. Clutch city.
“Take that, Belch,” said Brady. “I never choke. You choked in that Super Bowl when you wouldn’t play our starting DB because he hurt your feelings. What a wussy move that was. Had he played we would have won seven Super Bowls. That’s on you, Belch.”
Standing over his putt, Belch starts his backswing and moves the club towards the ball.
“Wait a damn minute, damnit,” yells Stephen A as he sprints up the 18th fairway in his gray business suit and red tie holding his Stephen A. Little Funny Kid Bobblehead.
“Everybody stop what they’re doing right now, period, end of story, plain and simple. I’m sick and tired of that soundproof booth. What a disgraceful disingenuously dastardly indecency.”
The noise distracts Belch and caused him to alter his swing, so the putt drifts two feet to the left of the hole.
“Stephen A. screwed up my swing,” said Belch. “I get to putt again.”
“No way,” said Brady. “You lost. Pay up, you pansy, pathetic Patriot. There are no do-overs. Justice has prevailed on you, the greatest of all-time cheater who wanted my balls deflated.”
Stephen A. keeps yelling at everyone.
“Can’t believe you guys left me in that soundproof room for all four rounds. I had to scream my way out. I screamed so loud it broke the window glass, sort of like in that commercial 30 years ago when a woman sang and broke the wine glass. Was it live or was it Memorex?”
“Memorex,” Tiger thinks to himself. “Was that one of the 497 sponsors that dropped me when I got busted womanizing with the world?”
Tiger takes out his smartphone and Venmo’s $500 million to Brady.
“Perfect,” he said. “I will use $250 billion to pay Julian Edelman to come play wide receiver for me with the Tampa Bay Dragons this Fall. And I’ll use the other $250 billion on a nationwide commercial campaign touting the TB brand and trashing Belch and his bitchy dog.”
To be continued…
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