Boston, MA – By now, you probably heard that Dustin Johnson is taking a 6 month break from the PGA Snore. Rumors of drug use, and not to mention (but to mention) putting his penis where it doesn’t belong quickly surfaced on the internet and social media. It will probably surface in newspaper format as well, which means elderly/irrelevant people will be finding out about it tomorrow. Quick note: It is taking every fiber of my being (literally, my testicles are slowly tightening as you read this) to not drop puns all over the place. Was there a perfect opportunity to say Dustin Johnson is ‘taking a powder’? Yes. But, did I? Well, yes, but I hesitantly and reluctantly walked us both into it.
Anyway, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: If I suddenly became rich and famous, I would be dead within two weeks. You know why celebrities are always getting caught up with drugs and alcohol? Because drugs and alcohol are both awesome. Yeah, addiction is bad, and so is domestic violence, but everything leading up to those two is pretty dandy. Here are a couple of scenarios to imagine if you were fortunate enough to be invited to my mansion:
You: “Martin, is it me, or, does it smell a little bit like pot in here?”
Me: “It’s not you. If it does smell like pot in here, that’s probably because everything in this room is made out of marijuana. See?” (punches a hole in the wall, grabs a fistful of dope, stuffs it into a bowl the size of something typically reserved for serving fruit punch, and hands you the bong)
Me: “Smoke it.”
(Puffs. Lights go out on your entire life, and when you wake up, it’s Autumn.)
Given that you and I have now used this evil gateway drug as a springboard to exotic drugs, and eventually our deaths, here’s another scenario I’ll give you:
Me: “Welcome to my party, make yourself at home, I hope you brought your swim trunks, we have plenty of food and drink, feel free to watch a movie in the theater, then go down the new water slide, did you have any trouble finding the place, who are your friends, what is your name, what year is it, sorry if it seems like I’m a little all over the place, but I’ve been awake for 700 hours and the closest I’ve come to exercising is alternating nostrils to snort coke.”
But, Martin, in getting caught up with all the distractions of fame and fortune, you forgot to mention the lifetime supply of blowjobs. No, I most certainly did not. Along with all the money and coke comes, you guessed it, the never-ending head. What I haven’t quite figured out yet is how I’d hide a woman that was kneeling in front of me in public for eternity. Like, would I just stand in front of a box that a washer and dryer comes in, waving at passerby, going “Morning! Don’t mind me, just getting a little tune-up!”, or would I low-rent it and simply throw a sheet over her? See, I don’t have all the details mapped out yet, but let’s just say it would be very difficult for your family to have me over as a dinner guest.
You: “Martin, would you kindly pass the salt and pepper?”
Me: “Can’t right now, climaxing.”
Speaking of people who know a thing or two about receiving bj’s, I almost feel like Derek Jeter’s Hall of Fame speech should include a little footnote about how it’s been 20 long, grueling seasons since the last time his peener was dry. And, now speaking of that mausoleum, you couldn’t pay me to go to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Oooh, let me go sniff Babe Ruth’s glove. Hey, there’s the shirt Ty Cobb used to wear when he’d beat the shit out of his wife after a loss. One cool thing is that I’m pretty sure if you rang out Mickey Mantle’s jock strap, you could still produce a half shot of whiskey, but, get the fuck out of here with that museum shit.
In closing, if watching a guy hit a ball over a fence for the 9 millionth time helps you forget, for just one magical moment, that you are an OUI away from financial ruin, then more power to you.
(Disclaimer: Wicked Improper not responsible for your new or rekindled desire to snort cocaine)