Last week, Precedent Shitgibbon had his Chief of Staff Mickey Mouse go before the cameras and announce that next year's G7 Summit would be held at Trump's Doral National Golf Club.
He said, and I quote, that after a careful and exhaustive vetting process, "Doral was far and away the best choice for the summit." Adding, for emphasis, "FAR AND AWAY."
Far and away the best choice, because if the summit were to be held anywhere else, the proceeds, including all those $12 Toblerone candy cars sold out of the minibar, would NOT be going to Captain Ouchie Foot and his band of pilfering thieves.
Having digested all of that mishegas, I thought, I'd like to be a member of a golf course.
Sure, I suck at the game. I can hit a ball 300 yards, unfortunately only 150 of them are over the fairway. I putt with all the subtlety of Gallagher swinging a sledgehammer. And I simply have no temperament for all of golf's stupid impediments, like sand traps and hazards and out of bounds.
"How can it be out of bounds when all my balls go there?"
Nevertheless, I love the idea of being a country club member and all the fancy white man accoutrements that go with it.
And so I thought, why not join up? Why not indeed.
Either I fit the profile for a Doral National Country Club member to a tee or these folks are just hard up for money. Because the response was immediate. And enthusiastic.
That was followed not long after by a more personal reply from Mr. Willy Ruiz, who is President of the Doral Club, no less, and often finds himself in the news.
Naturally, given my well-established inclination for letter writing, I responded.
Where is all this pot-stirring leading? Who knows, but I hope you'll join me on this unfolding adventure.
Next stop: Golf Jail.
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