Scam the Scammers

From: Hyundai Cars Company <info@hyundai.net>

To: bentrovato@mweb.com

Subject: You have won the Hyundai Company Award Funds

This is to inform you that you have been awarded 850,000.00 Pounds from Hyundai Cars Company. This Promotion Award is to raise the profile of Hyundai Cars across the world. (contact project manager) Name: Mr Jfferson Andrews. Phone # : +44703193 5671.

Send your name, country, city, age, occupation, pssition, home phone, moblie, email address to Mr. Jfferson Andrews for the processing of your award funds.

Congratulations!

 

From: Ben Trovato

Dear Jfferson,

What an interesting name. Is it Welsh? Never mind. I cannot believe that I have won so much money! How did you know that I drive a Hyundai? Is my name on a global register of Hyundai owners? My Elantra and I have been together for 10 years and we are still deeply in love. I have converted the spacious boot into a mobile office and entertainment centre which makes me the envy of all my friends except for those who laugh at me for driving a Hyundai. They say the only thing Koreans know how to make is stir-fried sausage dog but they are jealous.

I hope I do not have to go to Korea to get my money. Flying terrifies me. So do the Koreans. I would prefer it if you put the cash directly into my account.

Once again, thank you for this fantastic award. I promise that I will drive my Hyundai until I die, which could be quite soon unless I get the brakes fixed. Please hurry with the money.

PS. What is a moblie?

 

From: Hyundai Cars Company

Dear Award Winner

We have received your informations and you have been cleard for payment. We have sent your informations to our affliate bank for the transfer of your funds which is £850.000.00 GBP.

You are now required to contact our bank whom are responsible for the transfer of your promo funds to your bank account. The Hyundai Cars Company do believe that your funds will be put into good use for community development. This award is also sponsor by the Bill Gate Foundation.

Processing Director Hyundai Company Promotion.

Mr. Jefferson Andrews

 

From: Ben Trovato

Mr Andrews,

I am thrilled to hear from you again because I was beginning to think this was some kind of cruel trick. Are you sure this award is genuine? I do not wish to look foolish. Especially not in the eyes of Bill Gate.

You say I must use my money for community development? This worries me. It would take more than 850 000 pounds to develop my community and quite frankly I need the money more than my white trash neighbours. What do you mean by this?

 

From: Hyundai Cars Company

Dear Award Winner

What we mean in the word for community development it means that you should help the homeless and the less privilege in your locality as well as yourself. You have won the funds and it is yours to do what ever you like with the money but also please help the needy with the funds.

Mr. Jefferson Andrews

 

From: Ben Trovato

Listen here, Andrews.

I do not wish to help the homeless and the needy. They are terrible people. It is I, not them, who suffers the indignity of driving a 1998 Hyundai. Would it be acceptable if I used some of my money to pay a homeless man to kill my wife? I promise I will buy a new Hyundai with whatever is left over.

 

From: Hyundai Cars Company

We have accepted you use the award funds for your personal issues. You can now go ahead and contact the bank.

Congratulations once again!

Mr. Jefferson Andrews

 

From: Ben Trovato

Andrews,

I had an epiphany in my bed last night. When I told my wife, she said there was no way in hell she was going to clean it up. I told her that god came to me in a dream (he was Nigerian, oddly enough) and he told me to get rid of the Hyundai. He said it was the Devil’s car, so this morning I am going to set it alight and push it over a cliff. Does this mean I no longer qualify for the award?

PS.  I also told her that the Hyundai Corporation had given me permission to have her murdered. Please send me 800 000 dollars so I can pay the homeless assassin.

More works of a staggering genius now available

I have been inundated with requests – mostly from Mrs V Stopforth of Glenashley – to make more of my books available to agoraphobics, prisoners, quadriplegics and anyone else who has difficulty getting to a library or bookshop. Not that you’re likely to find any of my books at either.

I am therefore delighted to report that two more titles on my increasingly irrelevant backlist are now available as downloads on this very site. Stirred Not Shaken is the third book in my trilogy of letters in which … if I have to explain, you’re probably not going to buy it. The other title is Hits & Missives, a collection culled from the trilogy itself.

You can find them under the Contraband link at the top. On the right. Above the PayFast and PayPal links where … oh, you haven’t seen those either? Apparently not.

You’re going to have to hurry, though. In an unprecedented surge of apathy, my site almost crashed today when millions of people failed to visit it.

No wonder Jesus hated bankers

I just got a call from Nebraska from a woman who works for PayPal. She had heard I was having trouble linking my bank account and wanted to help. You’d think it would be easy linking a PayPal account to your bank account, wouldn’t you? After all, it’s a globally recognised payment gateway and, thanks to apartheid, Oscar Pistorius and Jacob Zuma, quite a lot of people have heard of South Africa.

But it’s not easy. Inexplicably, you first have to create an online profile with First National Bank, which isn’t my bank and, after this, never will be.

In theory, once your accounts have been validated by both PayPal and FNB, it’s a simple matter of linking them. Thing is, FNB keeps telling me that “some errors have occurred”. It would ruin the game were they to tell me what these errors were. Instead, they give me a clue. “E-100 mammoth.otp.PrepareOTPNavigator returned false with a success code.” Success is written in capital letters to fool me into thinking I have somehow succeeded.

The Nebraska woman asked me to hold on while she contacted someone at FNB. From Nebraska? At 4.55pm? My heart sank. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried a little while she kept me on hold. The next voice I heard was straight outta Manenberg. She led me through the same steps I’d been following for the last two days. I knew exactly what was going to happen the moment I pressed Confirm. I recited the error message to her, which, judging by her reaction, she’d never heard before. After an awkward lull in the conversation while I sobbed quietly, she said she was transferring me to online banking, cut me off and went for a drink in the parking lot.

If my friend in Nebraska really wanted to help me, she’d invite me to come and live with her. I would cook and clean and go fishing for bears (it’s best to put a whole salmon on your hook) if she promised that I would never again have to deal with FNB. Or Telkom.

There is some urgency to this matter. My international fans have been extraordinarily generous and I need to access my $58 as soon as I can.

Bill Gates Takes A Terrible Tumble

Dear Bill Gates,

Please accept my heartfelt condolences. The news must have come as a terrible shock and my prayers are with you and your family during this difficult time. Nobody deserves to wake up in the morning and discover that their world is crashing down around them before they have even had a chance to dip in to a simple breakfast of grilled Coelacanth drizzled with ambrosia.

When I saw the headline, “Gates No Longer World’s Richest Man!” I wept at the injustice of it all. How are the children bearing up? It can’t be easy for them. On Tuesday little Phoebe, Jenny and Rory are the most popular kids in school and by Wednesday, bam,they’re wearing oil-stained rags and mugging pre-schoolers for their lunch money.

You once said that when you die you don’t want to leave your children the burden of tremendous wealth and that’s why you would only bequeath them $10 million each. Please let them know that if they ever run short they can call on me any time. What’s mine will always be theirs. And I hope there is no reason to think the reverse doesn’t apply.

Melinda must be taking it hardest of all, what with people coming up to her in the street and saying cruel things like, “Aren’t you married to that loser who is no longer the richest man in the world?”

A word of advice, Bill. Keep her close. Even though money might be tight, buy her shiny baubles and fresh flowers now and again. Not garage flowers. She is nine years younger than you and I expect her eye will begin wandering now that you are on the skids. You don’t want to be fending off packs of salivating divorce lawyers.

But let’s get back to what is really important here – the imposter who has usurped your richly-deserved title that you have held for so many years. Jeff Bezos? Who does this interloper think he is? And what the hell is Amazon besides a glorified courier service?

Did you learn nothing from 2008 when Warren Buffet briefly knocked you off your perch? And what the hell kind of name is Buffet, anyway? It’s not even a name – it’s a cheap method of feeding large numbers of people without having to hire waiters.

Also, Buffet made his money through selling ice cream and razorblades to diabetics and manic depressives. You at least gave us computers. For god’s sake, don’t let him overtake you again. Second place is okay, but if you drop to third it’s all over, my friend.

Quite frankly I’m not surprised you got bumped from the top spot. You make hardly any money at all these days because everything is pirated. Millions of computers get sold each year in China alone and you don’t see a blue cent. A few years ago you spoke at the University of Washington and said, “As long as they are going to steal (software), we want them to steal ours. They’ll get sort of addicted, and then we’ll somehow figure out how to collect sometime in the next decade.”

Meth dealers use a similar strategy when targeting primary schools in the Western Cape.

Then again, you’re probably going broke because you resigned from Microsoft four years ago. What were you thinking? Middle-aged white men like you and me need to hang on to our jobs. Actually, I got fired the other day. We’re in the same boat now.

I believe you deleted your Facebook account because nobody wants to be your friend any more. Screw them, Bill. If they don’t want to know you because you’re down to your last $95 billion, they were never real friends in the first place.

Let me know if you need a loan.

 

An Open Letter to US Supreme Court Nominee Brett ‘Handsy’ Kavanaugh

Dear Brett,

Congratulations on giving those uppity Democrats a damn good tongue-lashing at the Nuremberg trials. The only difference between then and now is that the Nazis were guilty. Well, not all Nazis.

Do you mind if I call you Brett? We have so much in common that I feel as if we’re old friends. Okay, so I’m not American. Or a member of the legal fraternity. Nor, much to my regret, did I ever sexually molest anyone when I was younger. I suppose there’s still time. Unfortunately my parents brought me up the old-fashioned way and I missed out bigly at school when it came to extracurricular activities of a rapey nature.

In a way, you were a pioneer in your field. Go Delta Kappa Epsilon! It was only years later that Donald Trump released his bestselling guide to dating, “Just Grab ’em by the Pussy.” For all I know he heard about your teenage exploits and, knowing Donald, tried to claim all the credit.

Then again, you did tell the Judiciary Committee’s hearing that you were still a virgin well into your mid-forties or something. What happened? Did you give up trying to ‘force your wors’ after that sporting incident with Dr Christine Whatshername ended inconclusively or did you simply struggle to find a girl who couldn’t fight you off. I beg your pardon. I mean resist your natural charm and boyish good looks.

My mother wanted to call me Brett but my father wouldn’t have it on the grounds that the other kids would call me Brett & Butter and throw stones at me. Has this ever happened to you? Of course it hasn’t. You don’t strike me as someone who would ever allow himself to get stoned. Motherless drunk, certainly, but never stoned.

I think you acquitted yourself very well at the hearing, considering that it was essentially an ambush laid by the enemy. You were like a modern-day General Custer getting jumped by the Arapaho. That hearing was your personal Little Bighorn.

I was astonished when Democratic Senator Amy Klobuchar – I like to think of her as Little Bigmouth – asked if there had been times when you couldn’t remember things that had happened while you were drinking. The fact that you didn’t answer is proof enough for me that you are a man who tells the truth. Obviously you wouldn’t be able to remember something now that you couldn’t remember then. Who remembers their blackouts? Certainly not me.

I do, however, think your performance could have been improved in some areas. For a start, you shouldn’t have admitted to not being perfect. You are a white man. Where I come from, that alone makes you pretty damn perfect.

I don’t know who your acting coach was, but he should’ve told you that sobbing is better than sniffing. You went too big on the sniffing and came across more as a novice coke fiend than an innocent victim of a political assassination. And the bits where you did the wobbly chin routine were almost always the wrong bits. Who gets emotional over a calendar? Or a recollection of lifting weights at Squee’s house? Play the victim card by all means, but don’t get weird.

You were at school in Maryland when this all went down, right? So, in 1649 the Maryland General Assembly passed a law enshrining the principle of toleration. Christine seems not to have got the memo. If you can’t tolerate a bit of fratboy fondling you shouldn’t live in Maryland. Granted, the law did relate to religion, but without sex there would be no religion. I don’t even know what that means. I am drinking as I write this and I can always deny writing it tomorrow. Not that I suffer from blackouts, your honour. I can easily find a lawyer to diagnose me as suffering from Wernicke-Korsakoff’s psychosis. It’s a type of amnesia caused by alcohol abuse. Not that I have ever abused alcohol.

The Maryland state motto is fatti maschii, parole femine, which literally means ‘Manly deeds; Womanly Words’. If there was any justice in this world, that would be all the defence you’d need. You committed a manly deed and … okay, this is where it gets tricky. You put your hand over her mouth, denying her the right to utter womanly words. Not that women have any business using unpatriotic words like ‘no’ and ‘stop’.

You went to an elite Jesuit school. There’s another defence right there. Jesus almost certainly got up to some pretty wild shit during the eighteen years that nobody can account for. They are known as his ‘lost years’. Sounds like a blackout to me. It’s a good thing he didn’t have the equivalent of Mark Judge in his posse or there might have been a whole book of the Bible devoted to the exploits of Jayzus O’Christ.

By the way, you did a magnificent job of throwing Mark under the bus. He was your cheerleader while you were trying to show Christine Thingy your sensitive side and is in pole position to wreck your career. What else could you do but tell the hearing that for most of his life Mark was an irredeemable alcoholic basket case who couldn’t even get it together to kill himself and is unlikely to remember last weekend. You’re a good friend, Brett. Nobody could rely on his testimony after that and I’m sure he wants to thank you in person.

Clinton-loving liberals say you told lies. That your year book reference to a devil’s triangle isn’t a drinking game, as you claimed, but rather a different game altogether involving two men and a woman. Which is not to say that drinking wasn’t also involved. Out here in South Africa, a devil’s triangle involves two satanists and a goat.

They also say your year book reference to “boofing” wasn’t, as you said, a reference to flatulence but instead has to do with inserting alcohol or drugs into your rectum. Did you not wonder why your friends kept nipping off to the bathroom for a quick fart? Were you sad that they never invited you?

And what’s going on with these other two women who have jumped onto the molestation bandwagon? Deborah Ramirez seems not to have appreciated you flapping your willy in her face while playing a drinking game at Yale. Wasn’t that the point of the game? Isn’t that, in fact, one of the perks of going to Yale? Deborah says that as a Catholic she felt ashamed and humiliated. Nonsense. Catholicism and willies go together like Donald and Ivana. Also, she’s a registered Democrat and, worse, half Puerto Rican. These people lie about everything from body counts to whatever.

Then there’s Julie Swetnick. She says she saw you at a bunch of house parties drinking heavily and exhibiting “physically aggressive behaviour towards girls, including attempting to remove girls’ clothing to expose private body parts”. Fair play to you, Brett. If nothing else, this at least proves you have stayed true to your Republican roots.

You were almost there, buddy. Your seat on the Supreme Court bench was yours. Now this. It’s so unfair. No wonder you got emotional. As for that Jeff Snowflake, the less said the better. What the hell kind of conservative worries about the way women are treated? Doesn’t he know that the moment you’re on the Supreme Court you are going to vote against anything that smells remotely of womanly issues? No more abortions. No more lesbians. No more voting.

Thank god for beer.

Pay Me, Pal

Did I mention that nearly a million people from 186 countries have read my columns in the last six or seven years?

Many of them have been begging for an opportunity to contribute to my fun-raising campaign, which previously they couldn’t do because PayFast won’t let them. “Give us PayPal!” they cried.

Being a firm believer in giving the people want they want, I have now made it possible for the international community to join the countless  South Africans who have subscribed or donated to the cause. I say countless because it would be too depressing to count them.

So if you are earning pounds, dollars or euros and wish to join an elite group of people who appreciate that laughs don’t always come cheap, there is a PayPal button especially for you.

Gracias. Obrigado. Merci. Terima kasih. Shukran. Do jeh. Dankie (for the South Africans living abroad)

 

The subscriber you have dialled has detonated

I got a message from MTN today letting me know that I was due for a phone upgrade. My eyes filled with tears. It has taken me two years to work out a fraction of my current phone’s functions. Why why would I want to get another, infinitely more complex phone? Because it’s free? It’s not really.

It will lock me into another vicious cycle of shameless information superhighway robbery and exact a terrible physical and mental toll as I discover that I’ve thrown away the manual with the wrapping and will have to spend another two years cursing and weeping and stabbing at stupid little buttons and swiping a poorly lit screen.

I can take the upgrade or cancel my contract. Or I can kill myself. If I choose option three, then I might as well do it properly by strapping a kilogram of Semtex to my chest and running into my local MTN branch shouting incomprehensible slogans in the hope that one or other of the gods will send me to a place where there are no cellphones, no taxis and nobody in a yellow bib telling me where to park.

But a security guard would stop me before I could detonate. He would tell me to take a seat, not that there are any, and wait for the next available consultant. He would point out that there is a queue of people waiting to blow themselves up and that I should just be patient.

The staff at my local branch appear to be borderline retarded. I may be doing the mentally afflicted an enormous disservice, here. For that, I apologise. But I am not exaggerating when I say that their preferred method of communication is a form of grunting last heard in the Paleolithic era.

Cellphone shop staff are second only to the police when it comes to not giving a blind rat’s arse about someone who needs help or advice. The police at least make an effort to appear interested, even if they do lapse into a vegetative state halfway through taking your statement. Most of the time they can be revived with a chicken pie.

I am on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn and something called Google+ mostly by accident and almost entirely against my better judgment. I am a huge fan of social media simply because it is so utterly anti-social. Let us all interact through our portable devices instead of our physical bodies. It’s far safer and infinitely less messy. No more gaping head wounds, no more unwanted pregnancies.

What a time to be alive. Or dead.

How not to score a birdie

In the interests of balance and gender equality, it’s only right that I reproduce my letter to Tiger’s ex-wife Elin Nordegren. After this, I will never mention Tiger Woods or his family ever again, I swear.

 

Dear Elin,

First, let me offer my condolences on your recent divorce. Second, let me offer you my downstairs bedroom. I’m not sure if you have a place lined up now that you’re no longer Mrs Tiger Woods and I would hate to think of you and the children roaming the streets at night with all your possessions in a shopping trolley.

If you are interested in my offer, it would only be fair if you put some of your nannying skills to use. I have a problem child that needs looking after. Don’t worry. He’s almost 20 and you won’t have to bath him or anything like that. Unless, of course, you’re willing to do “extras”, in which case I have a few requests of my own.

You’re easy on the eye and having you around would be no trouble at all. Brenda might be a little uneasy at first, but between the three of us I’m sure we can work out an amicable solution. If you know what I mean.

I hear you have made the cover of People magazine after agreeing to speak to them about your horrific ordeal with that golf-playing sex fiend. Well done. It’s the last quality magazine left in a world awash with sensationalist rubbish.

I hope they are paying you well for your story. After all, your divorce settlement of $100-million or so won’t last forever. As you said in your interview, you won’t have to work initially. Out here in South Africa, we have people who are down to their last million. It’s too sad for words. Still, as Groucho Marx said, the poor will always be with us.

I am pleased to see you are sticking to your story that you had no idea Tiger was hitting the sweet spot every time your back was turned. Perhaps your sixth sense was blunted from the overpowering smell of money that must have pervaded your home.

Some people say that Tiger strayed after your libido became trapped in pack ice. What nonsense. You’re Swedish, for heaven’s sake. You people die without sex.

I see you’re also sticking to your story about not having attacked Tiger on that terrible Thanksgiving evening. Smart move, babe. Why run the risk of coming across as a psychotic Viking running across the lawn in your nightie screeching in a foreign tongue and failing a 9 iron above your head? The last thing you want at this stage is to lose public support. Tiger crashed his car after succumbing to a bout of the yips. It happens to golfers everywhere, usually after they have spent a few hours at the 19th hole. Or a few hours in 19 holes. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to reopen old wounds.

Anyway. I’m just glad that you got out in time and didn’t end up like Nicole Simpson. I am not for one minute suggesting that Tiger would eventually have done an OJ on you, but you know what they say about black men who marry white women – they go mad after a while.

A word of advice: take some of that money and buy yourself a new man – one who isn’t obsessively preoccupied with his willy. There aren’t many of them out there, to be sure, but if you look hard enough and offer the right kind of money, I’m sure you will find one. It would help if you’re no longer suffering from jungle fever.

Now that you have given People magazine an exclusive interview, I hope you will consider a centrespread for Hustler. Both are equally reputable publications and your celebrity status will be given a huge boost. As will my testosterone levels. I’ll get the downstairs room ready in the meantime.

As they say in Sweden, lycka till!

 

Mea culpa, you a golfer

So, anyway. In February 2010, three months after I wrote my letter to Tiger Woods, he issued a televised statement apologising for his behaviour. I’m not saying this was in response to my letter, but I’m not saying it wasn’t, either.

Here’s the column I wrote at the time.

 

THE image of golf has suffered terribly as a result of Tiger Woods’ breach of marital etiquette. Yes, I can see how that might happen. I was thinking of taking it up but then Tiger ruined it for me by making a billion dollars a year and sleeping with dozens of beautiful women. I, for one, will have no truck with such filth. Instead, I shall take up a sport in which I stand to make no money at all and get to sweat so heavily that I attract stray dog rather than hot girls.

You have to hand it to the Americans. You can get caught pimping underage immigrants to support your heroin habit, but if you squeeze a drop of glycerine into each eye and go on television and apologise and say that you’re taking gender sensitivity classes and checking yourself into rehab, the nation will applaud you.

This applies to celebrities more than it does garbage collectors and other members of the proletariat whose mea culpa is generally described as a confession rather than a courageous admission of their human frailty.

It only works for Americans, though. When British actor Hugh Grant’s willy accidentally fell into a prostitute’s mouth while the two of them were discussing the Middle East crisis in a side street off Sunset Boulevard on June 27, 1995, he never tried to “rehab” his way out of it. His laddish grin on the LAPD’s mugshot said it all. What happened in the car that night – that wasthe treatment. Let us be clear on that. Suffering from a prolonged dearth of fellatio, Mr Grant had his ailment treated by the nearest qualified person, who in this case happened to be nurse Divine Brown.

Tiger Woods, on the other hand, speaks for thirteen minutes and convinces the world that he is a very sick man deserving of our sympathy.

Halfway into his statement something strange happened. I began feeling as if I had done something wrong. As he spoke, the burden of guilt lifted from his shoulders and settled on mine. He was pulling some kind of weird voodoo stunt and getting away with it.

Tiger blamed the media for daring to suggest that his perfect Swedish wife, Elin, had clubbed him like a baby seal on that terrible Thanksgiving evening. “It angers me that people would fabricate a story like that.” I hung my head in shame. “Elin never hit me that night or any other night.” Brenda snorted. “Some Viking she is.”

There has never been an episode of domestic violence in our marriage,” Tiger insisted. Well, maybe there should have been. You’d be surprised at how sexual tension can be relieved by smacking one another around for an hour or so. It certainly works for Brenda and me.

I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. Thanks to money and fame, I didn’t have to go far to find them.” And the problem is what exactly? This is precisely why fame and fortune are a tad more in demand than, say, obscurity and penury.

What is the point of being rich and powerful if you’re going to be like the rest of us and go home to a cold, hostile wife who puts your dinner plate on the floor and expects you to get down on all fours and eat it like a dog?

We are only the way we are because we’re too goddamn lazy to work relentlessly at something until we are so ridiculously good at it that people line up to throw money at us to watch us do it or even just write or talk about it.

Tiger apologised to parents who had once used him as a role model for their kids. What rubbish. Show me one teenage boy who spent weeks sobbing in his room after hearing that his golfing idol’s idea of relaxation was to check into a R40 000-a-night hotel, drop a little A-grade ecstasy and lick Beluga caviar off the quivering thighs of naked porn stars while cocktail waitresses vibrating with lust queued in the corridor.

My loinfruit, Clive, showed no interest in golf until Tiger got bust. Now all he wants to do is get his hands on a bag of clubs, a bankie of Ambien and one of those Thai girls who work in the house across the road. That’s my boy.

Instead of being lauded for making golf the aspirational sport that it should be, Tiger was forced to grovel. Shocking, really, and a scathing indictment on what kind of world we are bringing our children into.

It’s hard to admit that I need help, but I do. For 45 days from the end of December to early February, I was in in-patient therapy receiving guidance for the issues I’m facing. I have a long way to go.”

And right there, the attitude of millions of people watching Tiger beat himself up went from self-righteous disapproval to a weird mix of empathy and pride. You fucked up, Tiger, but you’re dealing with your problem and we’re proud of you for that.

It’s black magic, I tell you. Not only does he manage to convince us that he has a problem, but he has somehow convinced us that his problem is different to the problem experienced by all men – that of wanting to sleep with lots of different women but not being able to because we are too ugly, too poor, too stupid or too fearful that some supernatural being might be judging us.

Tiger has already been through 45 days of hell. Therapy for sex addiction is no walk in the park. It involves role playing where women brutally rebuff your advances, group sessions where everyone points and laughs at your privates and being strapped down and forced to watch videos of women giving birth. Or so I have been told.

Stupidly, he said, “I have a long way to go.” In other words, “I still want to tear my clothes off and jump on anything that isn’t nailed to the floor.”

You used to have a great grip, Tiger. Don’t lose it now. Why didn’t you just say that the six weeks of therapy worked? Tell us you’re cured, for god’s sake. Nobody would even know the difference.

Actually, it doesn’t matter what you say. From now on you’re doomed to live the life of a Buddhist monk. I’d suggest you work on your chanting because your days of shrieking and whooping are well and truly over.

Talk about blowing it on all fronts.