Aha just the tonic for the Ryder Cup!
We reprise a Beamus O'Bradaigh rant that he wrote in Calgary at the Grey Cup last year.
Where it all shimmered chimera with a fulsome degree of ifs, ands, buts, butts, and oh myyyyyys!
Tiger is dumping his detritus in Wales?
Or is he?
Originally published as:
Tiger Tiger Burning Blight - Blather Bunk and Blunted Bytes.
By Seamus O’Bradaigh
Tiger, Tiger, fess-up tonight, find reprieve, shed some light.
Geez, Tiger, what the hell kind of mid-life crisis have you embarked on, for crap’s sake?
I’m guessin’ that there’s more, much more limping legless from that closet of detritus that you’ve been packing with salty dreams, fantasies and high def models.
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| Ah Tiger ... Ain't deception, false premise and wavering schizoid behavior wonderful. Good luck with this Ryder Cup thing. By the way ... How're the kids? |
Ah, Tiger, Tiger, I think you might, need a preacher of your own tonight.
Find a pulpit, confess, connive and canoodle. Cram ten years of transgression into one glorious, grandiose and grandiloquent sound bite. Cry, plead cajole.
For god’s sake be sure to have your wife and kids in the background.
Channel your inner Flip Wilson. Tell the world: “The devil made me do it!”
Better yet. Find Bill Clinton.
Ask him what the “meaning of is is.”
Ah pundits, poets, preening power brokers and popinjay press. Climbing all over this one like rats on a pork bone.
Tiger, Tiger quite a sight, knockin’ spikes by firelight.
I’m actually quite happy to see Tiger on the spit doin’ a slow naked roll with the Heinz BBQ sauce splattered liberally over the appropriate parts of his anatomy.
And I’m especially impressed by Jesper Parnevik, who had the cohunes and ticklish temerity to come out and say what a lot of golfers were probably already thinking.
To wit: hey Tiger methinks the lady doth protest unmuch; and she should have clobbered you with a driver instead of that true temper three iron. Fore!
