jpaulgorman

  The big bosses all got together for talks about spooking the people into line.  You know the ones, the boogie club.  Men and women and men that want to be women and women that want to be men.  All of them.  Starve 'em out with supply chain and drout news, not a drop of rain in northeastern Kansas for weeks, woe is the woe, it woes and woes. Fertilizer is what really scares the smart gullible people, they see the root of the problem, they just fall into the trap.  But the truly smart people don't worry about fertilizer, because there will always be fertilizer, just as there will always be a future.  The skin in this game, especially the skin tone, doesn't matter much, but it stings less if it's thick.  Thin skinners get road rashed, they stay scabbbed and irritable, nervously picking.  Bleeding from the edges. Light does have a way, truth breaks through.  A hundred years from now, people will remember the chickens, the marching ants,...

  I'm just waiting on my crash, The fire sale is gonna be hell, But I'm loaded up with cash. Tracking the ratios and shorts. Whether it's covered or just smothered. It's a little out of sorts. He talks, on no!  Jerome Powell. Eloquently he speaks, recklessly he cheats. Like a foolish wolf he howls. Play it like a wall street wiz. Take a quick trip, buy on the dips. Done like the market sharks did. Waiting on my crash. Waiting on my crash. Waiting on my crash. Waiting on my crash.

  Lightening was flashing, the thunder was loud, but the showers held off long enough, Day shot a final round 62 to win the Byron by 1 stroke.  His chip in, his drained putts, even his lay up on 18, all professional, all executed.  No wonder he won a major, no wonder he won this tournament twice, no wonder he was #1 in the world a few years back.  He zoned in, he locked it up, he took it.  Mamma Dening was resting in pride, his baby mamma was glowing, and his new cowboy hat gave him that James Dean Giant look. A five year cold spell can test any professional in any profession, but at 35 his game is back, his back is back, and his gonzo strut is back.  Watch out, this version of the PGA Tour is watered down a bit (LIV Golf does exist.), Day could go on a run, collect several more wins, add to his 13, including one Major - the 2015 PGA Championship.  In addition, he has 4 Europen Tour victories and 3 Runner Ups in Majors.  He doesn't seem to whine ...

  Even Scheffler gets beat down.  Majors don't matter on a Saturday in May on the 17th Casino Hole in McKinney.  Boos rightly reigned down in him and Palmer after coming up short.  Canadian Mackenzie Hughes came through with a solid tee shot, but he'd fallen off the leaderboard in the Texas wind.  Hang in there, Mac, you've still got a chance at a big check on Sunday.  Money matters, and every stroke has a price tag on tour.  Miss a 4 foot putt, lose out on $75,000, blast a drive out of bounds, $150,000, blade a sand iron, blade it back, that's a $225,000 triple bogie.  The winner of the event will get $1.7 million, 2nd - $1.04 million, 3rd - $650 grand.  If he holds his 54 hole position of 15th, Mac'll bank $173 grand.  Not bad, but every bit of his Saturday 73 hurt to the wallet bone. Scheffler is 2 back, tied with Day, Kim, and Norrman.  Local resident Marty Dou, Amarillo's Ryan Palmer, and Okie Austin Eckroat start their Sunda...

  My shoes wore out.  Following the Scheffler/Day/Lee group for the final 6 holes of their 2nd round was like being involved in some sort of mass movement.  People jockeying, outsmarting, speeding ahead, staking out their spots.  It was orderly and deliberate, outside the ropes, quiet and muttering, uptight and awkward.  I bailed for the final hole, enough is enough, the heat was picking up, I was out of water, it was almost noon, I was hungry. Then, the Theory Of Proximity was validated once again.  Big Cat Chuck sends me a note regarding a suite ticket for the 17th Choctaw Casino Par 3, the most preferred ticket at the tournament, the most coveted, right by the green, lit and tricked up, short and unpredictable.  He knew a somebody that knew a somebody else that knew the right people for the right reasons.  Evidently, I wasn't his first call, but I was on the semi-short list, and on a Friday my flexible occupation as a writer served me well, I w...

  I made an early arrival on day one of the Byron Nelson.  After months and weeks of preparation, the PGA tournament was on, players were already ripping drives, dropping putts, and doing their thing despite the spectacles.  Their's is a silly craft, requiring mental steadiness, technical swing execution, and emotional control.  If they get it right, they can cash some big checks, if they waver, others will cash the same big checks.  Golf doesn't care. The TPC Craig Ranch in my hometown of McKinney, Texas was in ideal condition, despite the spectacles, the greens keeper here really knows how to make the grass happen, the wide fairways were spongy, the greens were true, the rough was rough.  The professionals were winning, low round on day one was 11 under from The South Korean Noh.  Several finished way under, low scores were had, a bird feast was underway, even the afternoon Texas winds didn't ruin the meal.  Most of the names weren't household-...

  Let the trashers trash it out somewhere else, there ain't no camping here.  Clear out those tents, get a room, get going.  Beggars over there, out of the street, you're a hazard.  Go knock on the church door, or city hall, or some other institution, but there ain't no camping here.  Get going.  This is the southern war, our battle royale, our Alamo.  No telling the blood already on the streets, no telling the killing already done, no telling what's next, we're already in the soup, we're being stirred.  Our leaders are leading us into the line of fire.  We've been abandoned.  Left for dead. The mops and slicksters are devouring the milk and honey.  Gluttony on an international scale, feeding themselves like frenzied flies, shitting wherever they land.  Like common bandits and robbers.  Heap your pigment shame upon the heap of pigment bullshit already heaped.  No one cares.

  The pray haters are at it again, demanding we cease all prayer when we need it the most.  Thoughts, too.  Worthless, they say.  Do something, they insist.  Somebody else is at fault, somebody else is to blame, somebody else must pay, the murderer is dead. How dare we pray, how dare we think, how dare we, how dare we.  No burning, no looting, no bashing windows, no signs, no fires, just a sad sunset, a sad ending to a Texas day in May.  Right up the street.  The politicians will stir it up, Beto will show up to point his finger.  Racial scavengers will swoop in for a meal, the sickos. But, both my middle fingers are for the pray haters, the worst of the worst.  More of a fuck off than a fuck you, won't even ask them to join in, they can sit the prayers out.  I've got nothing for them, no suggestions, encouragements, or well wishes.  No nothing.  Go.