Rick Reilly Is A Whiny Little Bitch When It Comes To His Golf GameBy
I know, shocking, right? But I never realized how HUGE of a whiny little bitch this fucktard is until I actually wasted a few minutes of my life reading his latest column, “693 reasons why it’s tough to get an ace,” which will appear in the September 21st issue of ESPN the Magazine.
In this back-alley abortion of the written word, Reilly pouts about the fact he has never had a hole-in-one while golfing. Join the fucking club, fuckhead. According to About.com, the odds of a amateur scoring a hole-in-one is 1 in 12,750 with the odds steadily increasing depending on numerous factors.
But for the great Rick Reilly to be forced to suffer the indignity of not having a hole-in-one while others far less deserving of accomplishing the feat get to enjoy it? Blasphemy. In his column, Reilly takes 830 nauseatingly aggravating words to describe how he will have no more of it and detail how he went about righting the wrong that was so unfairly put upon him.
Of course, FJM-style always works, so let’s go that route.
I got sick of reading the stories…
God, I know how that feels right about now.
…is why I did it. I know it was wrong and unethical and even unholy…
What? Is he getting tips from Rick Pitino how to deal with an unwanted pregnancy?
…but I just couldn’t stand the stories anymore.
Neither can we. Yet you make about eleventy billion dollars a year to write this drivel.
A 5-year-old in Belleville, Ill., sank a hole-in-one … A 102-year-old woman became the oldest ever to ace … A man in Bowling Green, Ohio, has now made holes-in-one both right- and lefthanded.
A 5-year-old, a 102-year-old woman and a guy from Ohio? Ooooh, let me guess. I got it! Who are the three additional members of Rick Reilly’s dream four-way gangbang?
Really? Because I’ve been playing since I was 13, and I’m 51 now and not hideous…
Have you looked in the mirror lately? Oh, you’re talking about your golf game. Nevermind.
…and I’ve never made one righty, lefty, with a walker, a lollipop or anything in between.
Shit, this guy really is a pervert.
So maybe they can all kindly choke on a divot?
Try all you want, but you’re never going to convince a jury that’s how that Thai hooker ended up in your trunk, Reilly.
The one that made me snap was this one: 62-year-old Unni Haskell of St. Petersburg, Fla., made an ace a few months ago on the first swing she ever took on a course.
They usually say the first time swinging is usually the best. But why am I bothering to mention this? look who I’m writing about.
And that’s when I lost it.
I vowed to go to my local par-3 course and keep playing, round and round, like a rat after cheese, until I made a hole-in-one. I didn’t care if it took me an hour, a week, a month.
It must be nice to be able to do that, but shouldn’t he be writing more if he has this much spare time? Wait. Nevermind.
With my 22-year-old son and caddie, Jake (he’s made one — barefoot!)…
Does he work at winery?
I arrived at the Golf Courses at Hyland Hills, in Westminster, Colo., and set out on the dinky nine-hole North Course: 673 yards total.
Is that the course or how far it was from his car to the clubhouse? That’s less than 75 yards a hole! Is this the course where the Retard Masters would be held if there ever were such a thing? I can here Jim Nantz now: “Hello friends, and welcome to the Retard Masters at the majestic Golf Courses at Hyland Hills. Such a beautiful setting today to watch these special people with special needs play special golf. The dew is fresh, the drool is dripping and the competitors are grunting. Let’s bring in Gary McCord. Gary?”
“What a bunch of goofy little freakazoids. They have brains the size of postage stamps!”
“My dad’s made five,” said Hyland’s director of golf, Todd Coover (seven). “One went off a tree. I kid you not!”
He’s lying to you, Rick. You know those Coovers from Westiminster, Colorado. A bunch of lying mouthbreathers.
“How cool!” I lied, chewing through my lip.
You better make a dentist’s appointment. Always good for material!
The odds against making an ace are about 12,500-1. I guessed I’d played 50 rounds a year for 38 years. That’s 7,600 par 3′s. At that pace, I’d have my ace when I turned 75.
That’s twenty-four more years! Please tell me he won’t still be writing. Please tell me he won’t still be writing.
Maybe. Unless I did the sensible thing: cheat.
I figured at 10 shots a hole, nine holes a round, seven rounds a day, my ace would arrive in no more than eight days. I would be divorced, unemployed and fused at the T3 and T5 vertebrae, but I’d finally be a golfer.
So he hits as many balls every hole as one of the guys in my regular Saturday foursome? God I hate that prick.
My first shot missed. So did my second. In fact, my first 63 missed. My 64th, though, hit the pin and … rolled away. My 77th lipped out. “We’ll be done by lunch!” yelled Jake, standing by the hole and pounding his baseball glove, ready to catch any shots that didn’t have a chance.
Man, I’d love to be in the group behind this douchebag.
But after three loops, I was 0-for-270. Many of them gloved.
I wish your father would have “gloved” his, Rick. If you catch my drift.
After 5 hours 43 minutes — and five loops — I was fried like a fritter…
…and 0-for-450, with two pins, two lip-outs and one O.B. (don’t ask). Jake was looking like he wanted to be adopted.
I imagine Rick is familiar with that look.
“We’re really doing this again tomorrow?” he groaned.
The very same thing his wife says when Rick tells her he’s breaking out the dentist’s chair again.
You bet your inheritance we are.
Day 2: 20 more; 120 more; 200 more. Nothing. I repeated holes. I skipped holes. I hit 20 shots per hole. I tried not caring, caring too much, singing, one-handed, Happy Gilmore … all useless. The golf gods had spited me.
So have the writing gods. This is terrible.
As my back spasmed and hands gnarled…
Definitely not master of his own domain.
…and Jake’s eyes became shark-dead, I asked myself, What if I never do it? Am I less of a person?
He already has that one covered.
Besides, Ben Hogan never had one, right?
I’m not going to look it up, but I’m pretty sure he did. And he probably wouldn’t go the total loser route and play are Par-3 course for two consecutive days to get one. Do you want to know why? Because he’s not a dumbshit, like Rick Reilly.
My self answered: 1) You’ll feel like ferret droppings; 2) yes; and 3) Hogan had two.
Question answered. And ferret droppings? What the fuck?
And then, when all seemed hopeless, on my 694th shot of the quest, on the tiny 52-yard second…
Just like the pros!
…I hit a gorgeous little punch sand wedge that went straight as a Jonas Brother…
Ugh. And how exactly does Reilly know that?
…landed exactly 11 feet from the pin and rolled directly and obediently into the cup like a happy little gopher off to bed.
Exactly 11 feet? Did his son have a tape measure in his baseball mitt?
Rectal prolapses are no laughing matter. Look it up if you don’t believe me.
Jake threw his glove about 50 feet high. I threw my sand wedge god knows where.
Always a great idea at a golf course. “Where did I throw my club?”
We ran at each other like we were in a feminine hygiene TV ad.
“Reilly Feminine Odor Cream: for those not so fresh days.” Yeah, I can see that. Truth in advertising and all.
We collided in midair — me falling on my sore back and Jake falling on top of me.
Okay, stop right there. Isn’t incest illegal in Colorado? If it isn’t it should be.
And it didn’t even hurt.
Anal Ease is always the answer.
I had done it. I had achieved the achievable. Climbed the world’s smallest mountain. Slept with Madonna.
Nice reference 20 years ago, Rick. Have you seen that broad lately? She looks like a wax sculpture left out in the sun.
It had taken 6 hours 23 minutes, over 500 ball-mark fixes and 12 Advil, but it was done. Suck on that, Unni Haskell.
Any relation to Eddie?
To the pro shop to report the news!
“Son, to the douchecart!”
“I hate to tell you this,” Todd Coover whispered, “but it’s not technically recognized by the PGA. Sorry.” And I thought, Umm, Todd? I was hitting 20 balls per hole! On a golf course the size of a throw rug! What made you think I gave a mole’s pimple about “official”?
What the fuck? Mole’s pimple? Does Reilly just randomly select some sort of varmint and then pick a body part? Seriously, if I have to read one more of these I’m going to be as irritable as a jackrabbit’s sphincter after a hop across the asphalt!
The reaction from my friends was also less than congratulatory.
They are not your friends, Rick. They are hangers-on. They only pretend to like you.
“A 50-yard ace?” e-mailed my pal the Vanilla Gorilla (two).
Vanilla Gorilla? This guy has friends with lamer nicknames than Bill Simmons.
“That’s like a 150-foot putt.”
That’s what she said. What?
Do I care?
We can tell you gave up caring long ago, Rick.
No. Am I going to tell people how I came to mine (one)? No. And what will I say when I read the next story about a legless 104-year-old blind nun who got her first hole-in-one Tuesday while a live wombat chewed on her clavicle?
Another varmint? I told you so. And he just lost the support of legless nuns everywhere with that dig.
“Damn! What took her so long?”
Speaking of which, what took Reilly so long to finish this horrible column? Thanks Rick, for documenting how you not only wasted two days of your life but two days of your son’s life in a feeble attempt to get a hole-in-one on a hack course that didn’t even count anyway.
What a waste of a column. And he gets paid for this – well. Nice gig if you can get it, Rick.
But then again, I’m the one who wasted his time bitching about said worthless article. Well, no turning back now.