Attention PGA of America! This is Carlos Danger.
What? That’s taken? Ah, crap…okay…
This is Commander Media! I have your trophy! And you can’t have it back until my evil demands are met. Comply by Sunday at 5 or your trophy will be sent to a commune of smelly hippies to be melted down into cheap bracelets to be sold in parking lots of Disco Biscuits shows. Here are my demands:
One: From now on, after the singing of the National Anthem to open each day’s play, everyone will also sing Phish’s “Suzy Greenberg” at top volume.
Two: The Golf Boys are to be hog-tied, gagged, and sent to outer Mongolia to record their next song with a gaggle of yaks. They are not to return until they get a wardrobe.
Three: No more apparel scripts, dammit! I want some discipline at those PR desks. Does the name Tim Finchem mean anything in this town? (wait…don’t answer that…)
Four: A date in Manhattan with Kelly Tighlman…sushi for dinner, followed by a rock show at the Merc, and drinks at Temple Bar. Maybe even chocolates for dessert at the place that bald guy made famous. (Note: we will accept any Bobby Flay restaurant as a substitute.)
Five: Speaking of Bobby…I want golf with Bobby Flay. If he can walk into someone’s restaurant and challenge them to a cook-off, I can challenge him to golf. (And I can fix his putting woes).
Six: A huge parcel of land outside Denver I can convert into my own personal fortress of doom. (What’s the point of being an evil genius if you can’t have your own personal fortress of doom?)
Seven: Fix the damn roads into Kiawah Island so traffic can get there!
Eight: A smaller version of the Wanamaker so I can carry it around with me. This thing’s too damn heavy!
These demands are non-negotiable. Remember how Walter Hagen hid the trophy from you for five years? Well I’m better at hiding things than he was. Remember! Meet my demands or the Wookiies get your precious trophy! Muhuhahahahahahaha!
