Toast from The CoastPost by: Reece Lightning
Owning your own golf website provides one with many weird and wonderful bits and bobs…free golf from time to time; far too many hackers keen to tag along on weekends to hit some divots; drunks eager to chew my ear off with shit golf yarns in town – you know who you are; endless, unwanted SPAM; and occasional emails from The Gisy Herald’s Sport desk’s finest – Chris Taewa. Enjoy.
Whaddup bro (triple manoeuvre East Coast handshake followed by a chest bump of heavy metal mosh-pit impact).
Well haven’t you been busy with Mr Bo Jumbles? Luvin’ it. Sorry we didn’t catch up over summer hols. Would have boosted my easily inflated ego to have watched the moths explode from your wallet to buy me a couple of Steinies earned from a 6 and 5 off-the-stick demolition of your sorry white ass.
Reece Lightning? Is this the name you wanted if you ever attempted a career in porn movies?….
Contacting you to talk about my lawsuit for privacy invasion….Waka Donnelly sued me for loss of integrity due to my homosexual inferences published on your website. I won because I proved, through several Poverty Bay-East Coast representative experiences, he had never had any integrity to begin with, then showed the judge photos of him in his pastel shirts. No brainer.
Golf for me has been fairly non-existent. Did manage to anchor my mercantile team to a momentous victory rewarded with a $600 tab at Soho Bar, which we wiped out last Friday. Went home early coz too many hotties kept hitting on me. I’m a one-man woman…just me and that giant poster of Scarlet Johansson on the bedroom ceiling.
Playing my first handicap-counting round since October of last year this Saturday – the Tahunga open at TPC Tahunga, which I was very surprised to see wasn’t among the nominations for top NZ course on your website. Not only does Tahunga have some of the greatest holes you will ever play, you drink your beer in big bottles – which are half the price the downtown Auckland pussies pay for Heineken stubbies – and the chicks feed you on and off the course. It’s a bit like an episode of Spartacus without having to worry about your orifices being penetrated by a sword or a deviant gladiator called Bubba.
Haven’t had much chance to catch the good golfers on the box. Scooby Doo is the Sunday morning TV fodder when you have a nearly-three-year-old, which is OK because it used to be The Wiggles. Who, you say? Picture Mr Spock’s mother breeding with Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory and having quadruplets who grow up to be masogenists and form a children’s TV group dedicated to brainwashing innocent children with inane songs, hence torturing the fathers forced to listen and, if they are unlucky enough, shell out $50 when these wanks decide to do a tour of NZ. Sheer farkin’ genius really, but I would rather spend a night alone in a cage with Bubba the Gladiator.
Had a couple for Seve. My hero growing up. You know for sure he wouldn’t pull out of an event after nine holes because of a carpet-burn knee. Have you ever seen a player withdraw injured when he’s six-under? Funny how bad golf can produce bad excuses. Tiger’s dug a hole in the bunker even the legend Seve could not up and down from. Great champions are phoenixes. They have the ability to rise from the ashes, to overcome the worst of adversities (this is where you start playing the theme tune from Rocky). Tiger got stuck with his hand in the cookie jar. Admittedly he ate every biscuit that was in there, and the jar was the size of a barrel, but the only difference between him and the guy who gets caught screwing the neighbour’s wife is that Tiger screwed the whole cast of Desperate Housewives and a bunch of others a few blocks away.
Here’s a plucked-out-of-the-air theory. Maybe a good aftermatch bonk was key to Tiger’s success. Drug testing ruled out a seedless head doobie, you can only kill so many things on PlayStation and as most of us alcohol enthusiasts know, booze and golf the next day are on the first page of the recipes for disaster cookbook. Perhaps sex is Tiger’s elixir. I have suggested to my wife that experimentation could prove this, which she responded to with a comment featuring the word castration.
Well, it was enjoyable having this rare experience of time on my hands to write bullshit and not get paid for it. Keep up the good work but reconsider the lightning. Look what happened to John Holmes.
PS: What about Reece Twitters?