The Boo Chronicles, Vol. 4
Well, dip me in sweet cream and throw me down in a litter of kittens. It just don't get no better than this. I'm so tickled I cain't get my leg to go down.
Ya'll probably heard by now, we beat them volcanic-ash-snortin' European Rooskies and got back the Ryder Cup which, until we snatched it away from 'em, spent so much time over there it needed a dang visa just to get in the country. Honest to God it did. Them first two days, Cap'n Zing found out these new hounds could hunt, 'cause we got us a little lead, but it don't do no good unless you get you a deer at the end of the day, and we stretched it out to five for the W. Believe you me, them Euros is like getting a 12-point buck in season.
Cap'n Zing knew we needed to get out of the gate like Derby day, so he front-loaded our team, but I like to think it was the redneck middle what done a lot of the heavy liftin'. Me and my Kentucky sandwich, Kenny Perry, in front of me and my Holmes Boy, J.B., right behind. Kenny is about two years younger than baseball and had to finish the dang day with lightnin' bolts runnin' up and down one arm.
Sure, I rode my driver like a hobbyhorse off the first tee, but if you want to talk about goin' out fast now, what do you think of my boy Anthony Kim? Oh, man, all A.K. did was just go out and whup Sergio's behind until it roped like okra. And he was havin' so much fun doin' it, he didn't even know when the job was done. A.K.'s just a pup, to boot, and if that ain't a fact, grits ain't groceries. Them Rooskies are goin' to be seein' a lot of that boy for a long, long time. Me and my Kentuckians gonna nominate him honorary redneck. Make him the first Korean-American in the redneck Hall of Fame.
It was Jimmy Furyk, who if you're interested has enough hard bark on him to break beavers' teeth, threw the dead bolt on the Cup, but my Holmes Boy is the one really slammed the door shut. He wanted that last birdie at 17 the way a man in hell wants a glass of ice water.
As for me, the crowd invented a whole new Boo Wave on the seventh, and I was happy I could indulge 'em with a little ol' eagle out of the bunker down there. Them other six birdies I made didn't hurt neither, even if they did try to throw the spider web on me on the back nine to slow me down some. The best thing of all was, we didn't have to hear that oily, oily song all dang day long, though I think the boys back at the Scratch Ankle BP might like it.
Truth is, Mr. Nick and them European Rooskies ain't a bad buncha fellas. Some of 'em thought I acted out a bit, but we got it squared away. They's good people. Now the job's done, it's time to paint your hind end white and run with the antelope. Ya'll come back soon, hear?
--Jim Moriarty concludes channeling Boo Weekley, with his sincere apologies to Southerners everywhere, but particularly to them what's in Scratch Ankle.