Bergen stepped through the North Gate at the course with his clubs, cart, and his spiffy new Aussie hat. As he joked with Freddie Couples while completing his warmup routine near the first hole, the starter asked who he was and what he was doing there. Bergen showed him his “practice pass,” smiled, and said he had been striking the ball really well all winter, and was looking forward to playing his first round at Augusta, and giving Freddie a run for his money. 

The starter quietly contacted security before informing Bergen that the “practice round” pass entitled him to view the practice round of those participating in the tournament, not play a practice round. 

Bergen instantly became indignant, saying the pass said nothing about viewing, and demanded he be allowed to play his round. Not only that, he wanted to be in a group with Scottie Schlffler, but it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker if that weren’t possible. He said he would play with Freddie Couples, who was still close by, or anyone else—even one of those shitty LIV players, like Sergio Garcia or Bubba Watson.

Augusta Security took a measured approach with Bergen, telling him that he seemed like a nice fellow who just made a little mistake, and it would be bad for everyone if they had to cuff him and take him to jail. Bergen slumped his shoulders and said, “But I drove all night and practiced all winter. I bought two dozen Top-Flites and this cool hat.” Security then offered to buy him a hot-chocolate and a donut at concessions, which Bergen gloomily accepted.

He then walked back to the parking lot, removed his glove and shoes, deposited his clubs in the trunk of his 2012 Camry, and reentered Augusta National as a spectator. Several times throughout the day, in the distance he saw Freddie Couples pointing and laughing at him as he obviously recounted Bergen’s mistake to the other golfers. which they found quite hilarious. 

The only thing overshadowing Bergen’s misadventures was Rory Mcllroy winning the tournament in a playoff, thus completing golf’s grand slam.

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The story begins in the pre-season with photojournalist Kitty Latoris getting a freelance offer from Teen Vogue to go back to her hometown to do a feature on NFL MVP Josh Allen. Latoris, however, is hesitant to take the gig. Three years earlier she developed a debilitating opioid habit that led her down a dark path. At the height of her use she passed hot checks, turned tricks and held up liquor stores. Eventually, she found herself doing an eighteen month stint at the Albion Correctional Facility for Women. 

Upon her release, Latoris was determined to conquer her demons and go straight. She used photography skills learned in high school and later at ECC. She joined the paparazzi, tracking the movements of the Jonas Brothers and developing the unique talent of catching celebrities picking their noses. 

She got the call from Teen Vogue editor Lucy Lackner, a hapless Dolphins fan, because she liked Latoris’s work and hoped she would catch Allen with his finger up his nose or stuck in his ass. Latoris was hesitant, afraid that she might come into contact with old friends and fall back into her destructive ways, but it was a great opportunity that would garner more legitimate, well-paying work. Wishing on a star and praying for strength, she took the gig.

All was going according to plan at St. John Fisher in Rochester, where the Bills held training camp. She was getting great shots of the all-world quarterback Allen, but none of the compromising photos her editor had hoped for. The only notable exception was when Allen was under center, he occasionally lingered a tick or two longer on Conor McGovern’s undercarriage than was necessary.  

But then, at the Blue and Red practice at Highmark Stadium, Dion Dawkins rolled up on Latoris on the sideline after throwing a block on a sweep and tore some ligaments in her right knee. Forced to convalesce in Buffalo, she received treatment from a Physical Therapist named Johnny Rainbow at UB/MD Orthopedics. There was something about Rainbow’s easy manner, receding hairline, and sexy, crooked teeth that Latoris found intriguing. She also couldn’t ignore the hits of electricity coursing through her body every time Rainbow touched her. It was evident from his gentle, caring manner that Rainbow was also drawn to her.

The connection between Latoris and Rainbow didn’t go unnoticed by Bills superfan Captain Dave. After decades of fandom Dave required a little shoulder cleanup from the extreme high fives he commonly dished out at Bills games. Icing up together after their treatment Dave explained his shoulder injury to Latoris and said he was really pushing himself to be ready for the home opener. Then he mentioned how cozy she seemed with Rainbow and asked if he was her boyfriend. Latoris blushed and with a little laugh said, “No, he’s just my therapist.”

But, not long after that Rainbow asked her out, and she happily accepted. The relationship progressed like a storybook romance. But then complications set in. Latoris began to lean on her pain medication in an unhealthy way, leading her to contact old Buffalo friends in the opioid trade. Her girlfriend from the correctional facility, Marlene Maupin, who earned an extra six months of confinement for shiving one of the prison the cooks, showed up, and they spent a steamy night together.

Latoris was quickly devolving into a hot mess, but Rainbow stuck by her, gently encouraging her forward. It all came to a head when he bought them tickets for the Bills-Chiefs Christmas Eve game. Tailgating in the Hammer lot, their relationship was teetering after numerous bowling ball shots of 100-proof Polish Cherry Liquor. As snowflakes trickled down from the stars, Rainbow looked at her with that crooked smile and reminded her that she too, deserved love. Calmly, he said, “We can get past this if you’ll let love win. Kitty, are you ready to let love win?”

In that moment, after briefly being distracted by Rainbow’s receding hairline, they got lost in each other’s eyes, and then, as if touched by some supernatural force, they kissed. It was magic. They did another bowling-ball shot, and before they climbed atop a school bus to take part in the Bills tradition of breaking a table, Rainbow leaned in and told Kitty he was open to the idea of sharing their bed with her old prison mate, Marlene. 

As they held hands on top of that bus, waiting to seal their love by plunging through a table together, on the horizon for a brief moment, smiling down on them was Bills super fan Captain Dave in his long retired Captain America Bills grab. Captain Dave wasn’t just a Bills superfan; he was a superfan of love. 

Hand in hand Latoris and Rainbow jumped from the bus, safe in the belief their hard-won love would see them through. It was a Buffalo Bills Christmas miracle.

Latoris was concussed in the jump, and Rainbow suffered a broken hip. More importantly, the table did break, and the Bills beat the Chiefs 31-9, thus securing home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. 

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, to announce he too would be willing to deny a sexual relationship with the President in lieu $200,000 payment.

It is unclear if Kane even knows Trump, but thinks his election was the biggest con ever perpetrated against the working people of America. Once the check clears however, he said he would never tell a soul that Trump likes to be called: “Big Daddy Rump Rump,” while gently having his pasty white ass kneaded like it was pizza dough.

Kane went on to say that he would withhold information about the numerous boasts Trump made regarding the suppleness of his lips and the magic he could perform with his pinky finger. He would strenuously deny Trump ever held up his petite, money grubbing hands and brag, “I can tell you this, with just my pinky I’ll make you sing like a siren. Believe me.”

He would also forever remain quiet about the time in the Oval Office when he and Trump acted out the “Indian Removal Act of 1830,” in their tighty whities. The Act led to the relocation of thousands of Native Americans from  ancestral lands to shithole parts of the South and Oklahoma. Many died along the way from exposure and starvation  on what became known as the “The Trail Of Tears.” Kane said he would remain mum about how Trump, as Andrew Jackson chased him around the Oval Office, brandishing his pinky finger, while he played the opposition role of Henry Clay. Breathlessly, Trump would huff: “Henry, Henry… c’mon let’s get together on this. Let’s march all the brown people away.”

Additionally, Kane vowed not theorize about the tough guy persona being a ruse and that deep down all Trump really wants is to be loved. Sent away to military school as a young man and later mentored by the despicable and unyielding Roy Cohn, Trump grew hard around the edges, yet secretly craved approval and love. He is loath to tell anyone Trump likes his head gently stroked while being held and told: “There, there, Big Daddy Rump Rump, you’re a good boy. And yes, your button is bigger than both Kim Jong Un’s and… and Vladimir Putin’s.” The Putin thing makes him especially happy—but you didn’t hear that from Kane.

Trump responded to these non-accusations, accusations by saying: “Kane is a total loser and is using me to sell his really boring coming of age novel set in 1979 Buffalo. He has only been able to get one women to marry him twenty-five years ago, he sends his kids to state schools and his pick up truck is a decade old. Except for that stuff about the magic of my pinky finger and the size of my button, his satire site is total fake news and he is a total loser. Believe me.”

Sources say Kane is laying low, enjoying the delights of another Buffalo winter and is hoping not to say anything, to anyone, anymore.

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Though McDermott found Robinson’s belief in god to be “charmingly naive,” he did admire the positive energy it seemed to provide her and how it informed many of her selfless actions. “This really isn’t about her,” McDermott said. “She’s a great girl and the psychotic god figure she believes in, who both loves you and will condemn you to fiery depths of hell for not kissing his ass properly, wasn’t the problem. It was the people at church, they were too nice. At first I thought they were just being polite, ya know,  welcoming the new guy, but they were genuinely nice and interested in me as a person and it made me very uncomfortable.”

Raised in the Roman Catholic tradition McDermott was more accustomed to an austere, disciplined approach to devotion where individuals were held accountable for their actions. Explaining a missed business opportunity at Sunday morning brunch to fellow parishioner John Wilkerson,  because he failed to update a price and a  competitor undercut him,  McDermott was confused by Wilkerson’s response. “I tell this Wilkerson guy how I messed up a sale and he looks at me with these eyes full of kindness and says, ‘Ah, too bad, I’m sure you’ll be better prepared next time.’ “I mean, what kind of bullshit is that? I lost a big sale and commission and it was totally my fault. What am I supposed to do with this, ‘you’ll be better prepared next time,’ stuff? I need somebody to tell me I’m a dumb ass and that I suck. I need someone to feed my self-loathing, not tell me I’ll do better next time. That’s such bullshit”

As hard and confusing as Wilkerson’s response was, the deal breaker for McDermott came during the portion of Sunday service where you provide a peace offering to fellow parishioners with a handshake. In the Roman Catholic church this commonly is a brief transaction just prior to holy communion.  “As a kid I always got anxious just before the peace offering and tried to resist eye contact, especially if it was an adult. In the end though, as our hands touched, I usually couldn’t help myself and would look up and see the unfriendly sneer of my fellow parishioner. At first it was scary, but over time it became quite normal and served as a great reminder of my position in life as a lowly sinner, unworthy of the breath I drew, ” McDermott said with a far away look.

The peace offering at Grace Lutheran was far less transactional. Parishioners were encouraged to exit their pews and have a real social interaction with each other while offering peace. It was this practice, which usually delayed the service by 10-15 minutes, that led McDermott to end the relationship with Robinson. “I couldn’t take it,” said McDermott. “All these people laughing, smiling, drunk with fellowship, wishing each other peace. And, so not full of judgment. There was also this kid, maybe 8 or 9 years old who was making it his business to shake every hand in that goddamn church. He was so sincere and earnest and full of love, I thought I was going to be sick. He wasn’t going to get me, though. I kept moving, trying to avoid him, but he finally cornered me and with an angelic voice he raised his little hand and said, Peace. Reluctantly, I took took hold of the young man’s hand and there was a great cheer of approval throughout the church. “

Feeling lightheaded McDermott stumbled outside, took some deep breaths and regained his equilibrium. Then, looking up and realizing the church roof was covered with solar panels, he said to himself, “Christ, solar panels. Catholic churches are powered by the bones of useless dead sinners.”

Later, over coffee,  McDermott ended the relationship with Robinson.

Ms. Robinson is said to be doing well and receiving support from fellow Grace parishioners.  

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The often terminated and twice married Palo Alto resident complained for years he was misunderstood and his statements to women in the workplace about the way they filled out a sweater or how certain stretch pants really brought out the roundness of their asses were meant as compliments. “I was just trying to be nice,” was often the refrain he used to explain himself to human resource reps. “Ya know, point out to the ladies that whatever they were doing, it was working.”

Despite his struggles with inappropriate statements in the workplace Dunphy claims he has evolved. His first wife left him after he sent her a short video of himself masterbating while each of them were at work. Understanding this mistake he left out the video and made a call to his second wife while she was at the grocery store and made lewd barking noises as he achieved completion. The unnamed second wife is said to have left her shopping cart, driven to her parents house and locked herself in childhood bedroom for three days until the hideous barking noises left her head. “My second wife was very sensitive,” Dunphy said. “I feel bad about what I put her through.” My acts were meant to show how much I loved and missed being away from both women, but now I know what I did was wrong. And, I’ve learned from these experiences and only engage in self love privately these days. Except for a couple stumbles in the Sunnyvale  restrooms, I’ve been very good at controlling myself.  And, to be fair, those stumbles occurred when the Stanford women’s cross country team was practicing in the park. I mean, what was I supposed to do?”  

Learning about the Weinstein scandal and noting some similarities in his own behavior led Dunphy to do a fateful Google search: creepiest things men do. The results were shocking. Consistently, at every site he consulted, Dunphy found his thoughts, deeds and statements in line with what women found highly creepy.  He said, “At first I tried to rationalize, telling myself, ‘What’s so wrong with telling a woman she’s beautiful like fifty times while invading her personal space? Or asking them to: Smile. Or informing them you’ve been thinking about them in private moments and then make the universal gesture for rolling your own dice.’ What’s wrong with any of it?’  And, don’t tell me it’s not funny to send a dick pic asking “How do you like my new hair cut?”

But given the torrent of outrage directed at Weinstein and his own research Dunphy was prompted reassess his life. After a few days of moody reflection which included denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance Dunphy came to the conclusion he is a total asshole and his tattoos are pretty stupid as well.

Dunphy is grateful for this breakthrough, but is unsure where to go from here. “It’s really gratifying to become more self-aware, but after a lifetime of being a total asshole, its not like there’s some switch I can just turn off that would make all my creepiness float away into the ether. My revelations also don’t make Haley, the mail room girl’s ass any less spectacular either. So, for now I’m just trying to remain focused on my work and remove myself from compromising situations, while I get some therapy. But, I swear removing these tattoos will be easier and less painful for a creep like me than not being hypnotized by a healthy pair of boobs…Arrgh, there I go again. I’m such an asshole.”       

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Buffalo, NY—Sitting on their usual happy hour stools this past Friday afternoon at the Cobblestone on South Park Avenue watching Fox News, Kitty Litorus and her  husband Mike, confused thirty-one year old Trump Senior Advisor, Stephen Miller with rock legend Steve Miller.

“When did Steve Miller get into politics?” Kitty asked Mike, sipping her Fireball rocks.

“I don’t know,” Mike said, “but he looks like shit.”

“Yeah, time has not been kind to him.”

“We heard him on Howard Stern, remember? He went off on the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame. It must have been after that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kitty said

Listening intently, the couple liked what they heard from Miller about the Trump’s administration’s plan to overhaul immigration. Pushing back on the proposed plan, CNN’s Jim Acosta, asked if the English only requirement in the new policy didn’t intend to engineer the racial and ethnic flow into the country prompting Miller to unload on Acosta saying, this presumption revealed his “cosmopolitan bias.”(*note* cosmopolitan was a word to denote Jews and elites in Nazi, Germany and Soviet, Russia*)

Keeping his cool Acosta followed up with a question about changing what it means to be an immigrant referencing the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free” poem embedded in the Statue of Liberty. Miller responded that the poem was meaningless since it was added after the statue was erected.

The Litorus’s reveled in the take down of both Acosta and his “cosmopolitan bias.” They also loved  Miller’s authoritarian tone, which enabled them to look past the utter stupidity of his statement about the poem being meaningless since it was added after the statue was erected.

“Mike, he reminds of the way your dad used to yell at you. Remember, do as I say, not as I do?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, “I just pissed myself a little hearing Miller.”

“Boy, he sure has come a long way since being a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker, but I like it,” Kitty said with a smile

“I’ll say,” Mike said also smiling, “We should check to see if he’s still does shows.”

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