Author Archives: Kathleen

Rory McIlroy

What an awesome win at the US Open. I cried when he hugged his Dad. I don’t cry often. Sometimes I cry when the GEICO lizard gets sad, but usually he’s having a good laugh. It’s rare when the Irish come in first at anything. If drinking earned medals, we’d kick everyone’s ass. I think the Russians would give us a good run, but fuck you, Vladimir; we will give up our souls to win a drinking competition. We only won one medal in the Beijing Olympics and that was a boxer who probably wasn’t even “officially” entered. Probably just a drunk Irish guy who got a weird look from some Chinese guy in a bar and started punching Chinese people ’til he accidentally won a gold medal.

And yes, I am admittedly a Tiger hater. I’d like to state my Tiger hating began pre-I slept with 900 women other than my wife and the one who works at the Waffle House. I don’t care what he does off the course. My brother and I have argued for years over this because he is not a Tiger hater. He says Tiger plays with “passion.” I say, “Yeah, whatever, Patrick. You can ‘play with passion’ and still not be a dick”. Tiger never smiles, never laughs his ass off, is never accommodating to fans or the media, which he pathologically lies to. If I was a member of the press, I wouldn’t even ask him questions anymore because 9 out of 10 answers are a lie.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Two days later, he’s withdrawing from a tourney because he’s hurt. If I was forced to ask him shit, then when I wrote my article, I’d put after each sentence–(could be a lie, don’t blame me.)

It was nice to see Rory, a 22-year-old, who smiles, laughs and at least APPEARS to be having fun while kicking everyone’s ass. Good for him. Rory ate it at the Masters like the French dude at the British Open but he stood there and answered every question and gave actual answers instead of whatever some bullshit “sports shrink” told him to say. I’m sure it’s embarrassing to have a meltdown in front of the world. I’m embarrassed at my Mom’s “Ladies League” when I miss a putt and they’re all 80 and blasted by 9 a.m. He said he just wanted to go have beers with his friends. So would I after that meltdown. But that’s what is fun about the Irish. We like a good drink (or 12) after extreme sadness or extreme happiness. Or really anytime, but more so in the extreme moments.

I do hope Tiger comes back. But only so Rory or Ricky or any other of the 20 somethings can kick his ass. For 15 years of acting like an asshole, I think 15 years of getting his ass handed to him would bring it back to even. And no matter what, I’m still rooting for Raymond Floyd. My brother doesn’t see it, but Raymond is gonna make the comeback of the century and win Masters at age 60.

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Chaz Bono

Chaz Bono was on Oprah this week to discuss her transition to becoming a man. I’ve watched those specials on TV about people who feel trapped in the wrong body and I believe them. They all say they wanna kill themselves if they can’t switch so I’m gonna go ahead and say they’re telling the truth. I’ve also watched 10 Larry King shows where he’s tried to understand these people but can’t and still can’t understand who they’re sleeping with now or why. “Wait, are you gay? You were gay and you’re still gay? Why? Are you straight? Do the parts work? Who’d you like before? Men or women? Let’s take a break.” Yes, Larry, let’s do. Larry trying to understand is more entertaining than if Larry actually became a woman. I feel happy that Chaz has gone ahead and gotten the surgery that will finally make her feel like she’s in the right body. I can’t imagine feeling like you’re in the wrong body. As much as I’ve drank and smoked, I can’t even really feel my own body and that’s fine with me.

I’m Chaz’s age and I can’t imagine having the energy to have elective surgery of any kind. I’m too tired to go to Lens Crafters. I know I should. Everyday I feel like my contacts are in the wrong eyes and everything is slightly sideways, but not sideways enough for me to drive anywhere to get anything done about it. I can’t imagine telling my family that the whole time they’ve know me I really wanted to be a man. They’re pretty open minded but this sort of announcement would definitely ruin Christmas. One year, my youngest brother said he might not take anything seriously for awhile after college and instead just travel around with a backpack or bartend in Chicago for fun. I thought my Dad was going to lean over the mashed potatoes and punch him in the face. “Travel around? Whadda think, you’re Jesus? You can’t just wander around. You’re going to get a job and act like a normal person. Period.” My brother became a stockbroker.

If my brother had announced that instead of being Patrick, he wanted to be Patricia, it would have been the greatest moment of the rest of my and my siblings lives. Wow. He’s thrown down the last card! SHOCCCKING! There’s no fucking up beyond this! We’re free to have sex with a donkey! Not that we would, but that would still be less traumatic. “Hey, I was drunk in Tijuana, it was a dare, c’mon, it didn’t reallllly happen, just sorta drunken fun. I’m not marrying the donkey….or having a sex change….god, everyone relax and remind meeee to not tell you anything fun anymore.”

There’s nothing, ever, that I can think of, that would be more shocking to parents. And neither of my parents is CHER, although my Mom does have Cher ranked high on her Ipod and my father just keeps asking what kind of Indian she is. Cher made an announcement, I imagine after 65 shots of Mad Dog, saying she supports Chaz’s sex change surgery decision. My father’s announcement would have been something along the lines of, “Although my wife and I thought we loved our children unconditionally, as it turns out, we don’t. This little son of a bitch Patrick has lost his mind. When we said “our children” we meant the sex they were born so since he hasn’t kept up his end of the deal, neither are we. We are officially not talking to him anymore. We will play the Irish game of every other family member telling us about him and delivering messages on our behalf but we are done speaking to him directly. We will keep him in the will as PATRICK but no one named PATRICIA will be picking up an inheritance check which at this point, to cope with this news, will probably be gambled away at an Indian Casino because my wife and I forget all our problems when we gamble. I was going to leave him my hunting rifles and a nice lawn mower but since he’s chosen to become a woman, I’m now leaving those things to my sons who have not lost their goddamn minds.”

Somehow, my dad would also find someone on my Mom’s side of the family to blame. “Well look at your Uncle Hibby. He wasn’t right. Everyone knew he was a little fruit.” My mom would ignore these comments knowing full well his uncle Neil used to be a woman named Nellie. As his sibling, I’d go along with Patrick’s “journey” because he let us all off the shock hook and I’d hope and pray that he would not look better than me as a woman. That would be just depressing enough for me to wanna become a man.

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Birth Certificate

Well we’ve established Obama was born in this country. Whew. Thank…you…DONALD. You are a can-do big barking dog. It’s been weighing heavy on four nut job’s minds in this country for years. Now they can relax and watch Swamp People like normal happy Americans (I include myself in this group). I can’t believe people give a shit even if he wasn’t born here. I don’t care if he’s a Martian. Seriously, I’d soooo vote for a Martian. I’d actually prefer a Martian. I’d campaign for the little guy. We could use an alien in charge. It’d put the fear of God in the jackass politicians who get nothing done if they knew the small Martian president could evaporate them simply by pointing his finger their way.

And as an aside, I find it odd that Donald and Rosie are constantly fighting as they are now the exact same size. I also saw Ann Coulter weigh in on the birth certificate issue and I’m not sure what she was saying because I could only focus on the size of her adam’s apple which is larger than any tranny bartender’s in West Hollywood.

 

Tonight’s conversation, somewhere in America, in a basement with a blinking beer sign:

 

“Bullshit. He just ain’t from America. He ain’t proved it.”

“Well today they done said he proved he was born in Hawaii.”

“Like I said, dumbass, he wasn’t born here. Hawaii ain’t here. It’s an island, like Gilligan’s.”

“Well they count Alaska and that’s a island. Pass me a beer.”

“That’s attached, dumbass. By a big ass bridge. It’s right by Utah and Hong Kong. Look at a map. Goddamn, you hurt my brain.”

“Well what about Puerto Rico….is that a state?”

“I don’t know shit about Puerto Rico and I don’t care to know about the Mexicans from there.”

“If you don’t throw that dart, I’m gonna take it and shove it up your ass.”

“Shut it Bob. I’ll throw when I aim right. I ain’t throwing all crazy and losing a six pack because you don’t know logistical geographical stuff. You need to understand, the man is from Kenya. Plain and simple.”

“Where’s that?”

“Fuck if I know but it ain’t near here or I’d have heard about it at bowling. And it ain’t in the constitution. I know that.”

“I quit bowling because it’s bullshit to charge $6 a game when it don’t cost them nothin…I brought my own shoes and ball. It’s just plain ass bullshit.”

“And that’s why you’re single and playin darts with me Bob. You don’t get it. You never did. I’ll say it again Bob, where are the hot chicks? JOYFULL COMSIC LANES Bob. You think I’d have found Trudy in this basement? No bob. No. Listen to me, Obama is bullshit. He’s foriegn, like a fire ant in Canadia. Bowling is real. And American. Do you see the Chinese bowling Bob? No, you don’t.”


God Bless America.

 

 

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