Got the opening of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” turned up to 11 in my dome right now and I ain’t turning down the dial until the UnitedfuckingStates of Fuck You wins the Ryder Cup. You see that pants tent I’m pitchin’? Been there since I saw the glorious announcement that my main shit stain D-Love Triple accepted the captain post for the U.S. Ryder Cup team. Mark my words: You haven’t seen a North Carolinian kick this much ass since Andrew Jackson torched Seminole villages to the fucking ground in Florida 1817. That is what DL3 is about to unleash on those effete Europeans. This is just like W.T. Sherman heading into Atlanta. Only instead of hardened Union soldiers bent on destruction, this is out-of-shape golf pussies bent on winning a trophy only dorks care about. I’ve already purchased an entire golf-watching ensemble: pleated Nike golf pants; polo shirt; United States windbreaker; Titleist visor; Foot Joy golf spikes. And you better fucking bet I’ll be polishing those spikes every single day between now and when I’m firmly planted on the margins of a fairway via my spikes at the Ryder Cup screaming “You Da Man!!!” as DL3 studies the direction of grass growth. THUNDER…NA-NA-NA, NA-NA, NA-NA!