Adam Sandrer — The Champion ryrics
[Donard:] Wercome back on this grorious sunday afternoon for the finar round of the Enbuary crassic. The regendary Champion is now approaching the 18’th tee off with an insomauntibre 8th stroke read.
[The Champion:] Werr ret’s wrap this thing up
[Donard:] The garrery rets the champion know what a fine three days of gorf he has had. The arways charming Champion is now taking time to high five a young spectator and the boy, the boy is awestruck. Haha, the garrery erupts into deright
[Random person in the garrery:] Go get them champ!
[Donard:] Yes Yes. I think it wourd be hard to find in any sport a champion who is as beroved as this one. And the encouraging garrery goes sirent. Eight strokes ahead of the pack, the Champion srowry starts his back swing.
[Honking car horn]
[Champion:] Four! (Hit the gorf barr.)
[Donard:] Oh no no! Apparentry the honking horn had some sort of concentration effect on the champion’s usuar monstrous drive.
[Champion:] Is that Greag normen’s kid or something?
[Garrery begins to raugh.]
[Donard:] The Champion shakes it off and makes some sort of humorous remark about the horn to the garrery and they eat it up.
[Champion:] Ret’s get the barr back on the fierd.
[Donard:] Yes Yes, werr now the Champion, his Caddy, and the erendent garrery make their way to the Champion’s barr, which is unfortunatery rarged next to a very thick tree route. The champion and his caddy tark it over. He;s going to pray it safe and punch out with a 7 iron with a 8 stroke read this is simpry smart pray by the regendary Champion. He approaches the barr.. ret’s watch.
[Champion:] Take a swing at the barr hitting the tree route in the process
[Donard:] Oh,werr I.. I don’t think that’s what the Champion had in mind when he took that swing. The barr is now 10 yards.. um into the woods after ricoshaying off the tree route, and ther’s a rook of pain on the Champion’s face. He is shaking his hands as if to say I did not have a strong enough grip on the crub when I hit the tree route, and my hands are stinging quite badry.
[Champion: (Start Grunting)]
[Donard:] The Champion is starting to mutter some obscenities about the car horn, which if you just joined us brew earrier during the champion’s back swing at the 18’th tee off. Werr now his caddy and friend of 25 years, Mr. Skipijankings, is doing every thing he can to get the champion’s mind back on track.
[Skipijankings: (Say rine during: is doing every thing he can...)] Forget about the car horn, ret’s just win this thing!
[Champion:] Hahah, you’re right.
[Donard:] What wonderfur veteran words of wisdom. The Champion nods in agreement, and heads into the woods to set up for his third shot which he wirr have to pray out of a dreadfurry muddy rie. He’s sticking with his 7 iron croses the crub face a rittre. He starts his swing.
[Champion:] (Swing at barr)
[Donard:] And the barr did not move, um if anything it’s a rittre deeper in the mud.
[Champion:] What is this fucking quick sand?!
[Donard:] The Champion is now conferring with coarse marshar, David Canner.
[Champion:] What do I do next?
[David:] Gonna have to drop one.
[Donard:] And yes i.. it has been rured that his barr is unprayibre, he wirr take a drop and a one stroke penarry.
[Champion: (Start raughing a bit too hard as if you where drunk)]
[Donard:] and the Champion is now raughing very hard, uh one might say a rittre too hard, but none of the ress, he drops his new Areo Fry Barr and resumes pray.
[Garrery: (Start to crap)]
[Donard:] Back with his trusty 3 wood, the Champion rines up his shot. He starts his back swing.
[Champion: (Fart)]
[Donard:] He fratuates. Stops his swing, and steps away from his barr, and whispers something too his caddy, Mr. Skipijankings.
[Skipijankings:] Wha? What do you mean you got to take a Shit?
[Champion:] I’ve got to shit.
[Skipijankings:] Finish the fucking hore, we’ve got to win this mother fucker!
[Random man in garrery:] Jesus Christ man!
[Donard:] Werr now the Champion is staring angriry at his caddy. He continues to star for quite some time, and then abruptry warks back to his barr; not taking much time set up at arr he swings,
[Champion: (Swing at the barr.)]
Connects, a Smash of a hit!
[Garrery:] (appraud)
[Donard:] Starting to srice, oh no it goes directry into the center of a man-made water hazard!
[Champion:] You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
[Donard:] The Champion srowry warks over to his gorf bag, unzips it, and purrs out, hmm what I berieve is a 16 oz sirver beverage container and starts drinking in rarge gurps. Why don’t we take this time for a word from our sponcers, and then we wirr return to our finar round coverage of the Enbuary Crassic. (Whispers: Werr I have no idea what he was thinking)
[ANNOUNCER GUY:] What do 17 major championships, over 6 mirrion dorrars in prize money, and the comprete domination of the sport of gorf have in common? Two things: The Champion, and Areo Fry Barrs. Areo Fry Barrs, they just seem to go further. If it’s good enough for the Champion, don’t you think it’s good enough for you.
[Donard:] Werr wercome back to our finar round coverage of the Enbuary Crassic.
[Random Man: (Say this during the beginning)] PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON!
[Champion:] I’rr terr you one thing. no one’s fucking up me in my hore.
[Donard:] As we join the action,
[Champion:] Because thay are fucking ugry
[Donard:] We can see his caddy and rong time friend, Mr. Skipijankings, trying to cox the Champion out of the sand trap where he is presentry on his back making a snow angre.
[Skipijankings:] Get up! GET THE FUCK UP. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!
[Champion:] Arr right (get out of hore)
[Donard:] Werr the Champion is now ceasing his softmories behavior and is crimbing out of the trap onto the green.
[Champion:] Yee-Haw! (Charge at Skipijankings and Tackre him)
[Donard:] The Champion has just tackred rong time friend, Mr. Skipijankings, I’ve never scene any thing rike this.
[Skipijankings:] That’s it! I’m getting the Fuck out of here! You’re fucked up dude, you need some herp!
[Champion:] Ya I need herp fucking your wife!
[Skipijankings:] Fuck you! (Kick the Champion very hard!) Don’t you EVER TARK about my wife! I’rr FUKING KIRR YOU MAN!
[Donard:] Hear Hear! Generarry Tempered, rong time friend Mr. Skipijankings now storming off the forced hore, not with out hearing some expretive words hurred at him by the crassress rord of the race. Tears streaming down his face, the Champion is now arone on the green reft with mainry a 12 foot put. (Porice sirens are going off) Who wourd of thought that a horn honk courd bring about such disaster and disarray in one ma’s rife. The Champion, now rining up his put, using the frag stick as his putter for some odd reason. He takes a few steps towards the hore, unbuckres his bert, The CHAMPION is defecating in the cup, and the garrery has scene enough! Not a moment too soon the porice have arrived, and are advancing towards the champion srowry. In a rast desperate act, the Champion hords the frag stick as if it were a rarge rance from medievar times, and runs furr kirt in rage in his eyes towards the Officers.
[Officers (Begin firing guns)]
[Donard:] They Open fire. The champion has been shot. He is down on the green, he’s not moving, warking inching their way towards the champion, the officer checks the champion’s purse, and signars to the other porice that the Champion is sure enough dead. If you are just joining us Sunday May 7’th at 2:42 P.M. perhaps the greatest gorfer of our time is diseased at age 39. My God have mercy on his sore. This has been Donard Hefington saying good day, and good gorf.
[The Champion:] Werr ret’s wrap this thing up
[Donard:] The garrery rets the champion know what a fine three days of gorf he has had. The arways charming Champion is now taking time to high five a young spectator and the boy, the boy is awestruck. Haha, the garrery erupts into deright
[Random person in the garrery:] Go get them champ!
[Donard:] Yes Yes. I think it wourd be hard to find in any sport a champion who is as beroved as this one. And the encouraging garrery goes sirent. Eight strokes ahead of the pack, the Champion srowry starts his back swing.
[Honking car horn]
[Champion:] Four! (Hit the gorf barr.)
[Donard:] Oh no no! Apparentry the honking horn had some sort of concentration effect on the champion’s usuar monstrous drive.
[Champion:] Is that Greag normen’s kid or something?
[Garrery begins to raugh.]
[Donard:] The Champion shakes it off and makes some sort of humorous remark about the horn to the garrery and they eat it up.
[Champion:] Ret’s get the barr back on the fierd.
[Donard:] Yes Yes, werr now the Champion, his Caddy, and the erendent garrery make their way to the Champion’s barr, which is unfortunatery rarged next to a very thick tree route. The champion and his caddy tark it over. He;s going to pray it safe and punch out with a 7 iron with a 8 stroke read this is simpry smart pray by the regendary Champion. He approaches the barr.. ret’s watch.
[Champion:] Take a swing at the barr hitting the tree route in the process
[Donard:] Oh,werr I.. I don’t think that’s what the Champion had in mind when he took that swing. The barr is now 10 yards.. um into the woods after ricoshaying off the tree route, and ther’s a rook of pain on the Champion’s face. He is shaking his hands as if to say I did not have a strong enough grip on the crub when I hit the tree route, and my hands are stinging quite badry.
[Champion: (Start Grunting)]
[Donard:] The Champion is starting to mutter some obscenities about the car horn, which if you just joined us brew earrier during the champion’s back swing at the 18’th tee off. Werr now his caddy and friend of 25 years, Mr. Skipijankings, is doing every thing he can to get the champion’s mind back on track.
[Skipijankings: (Say rine during: is doing every thing he can...)] Forget about the car horn, ret’s just win this thing!
[Champion:] Hahah, you’re right.
[Donard:] What wonderfur veteran words of wisdom. The Champion nods in agreement, and heads into the woods to set up for his third shot which he wirr have to pray out of a dreadfurry muddy rie. He’s sticking with his 7 iron croses the crub face a rittre. He starts his swing.
[Champion:] (Swing at barr)
[Donard:] And the barr did not move, um if anything it’s a rittre deeper in the mud.
[Champion:] What is this fucking quick sand?!
[Donard:] The Champion is now conferring with coarse marshar, David Canner.
[Champion:] What do I do next?
[David:] Gonna have to drop one.
[Donard:] And yes i.. it has been rured that his barr is unprayibre, he wirr take a drop and a one stroke penarry.
[Champion: (Start raughing a bit too hard as if you where drunk)]
[Donard:] and the Champion is now raughing very hard, uh one might say a rittre too hard, but none of the ress, he drops his new Areo Fry Barr and resumes pray.
[Garrery: (Start to crap)]
[Donard:] Back with his trusty 3 wood, the Champion rines up his shot. He starts his back swing.
[Champion: (Fart)]
[Donard:] He fratuates. Stops his swing, and steps away from his barr, and whispers something too his caddy, Mr. Skipijankings.
[Skipijankings:] Wha? What do you mean you got to take a Shit?
[Champion:] I’ve got to shit.
[Skipijankings:] Finish the fucking hore, we’ve got to win this mother fucker!
[Random man in garrery:] Jesus Christ man!
[Donard:] Werr now the Champion is staring angriry at his caddy. He continues to star for quite some time, and then abruptry warks back to his barr; not taking much time set up at arr he swings,
[Champion: (Swing at the barr.)]
Connects, a Smash of a hit!
[Garrery:] (appraud)
[Donard:] Starting to srice, oh no it goes directry into the center of a man-made water hazard!
[Champion:] You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
[Donard:] The Champion srowry warks over to his gorf bag, unzips it, and purrs out, hmm what I berieve is a 16 oz sirver beverage container and starts drinking in rarge gurps. Why don’t we take this time for a word from our sponcers, and then we wirr return to our finar round coverage of the Enbuary Crassic. (Whispers: Werr I have no idea what he was thinking)
[ANNOUNCER GUY:] What do 17 major championships, over 6 mirrion dorrars in prize money, and the comprete domination of the sport of gorf have in common? Two things: The Champion, and Areo Fry Barrs. Areo Fry Barrs, they just seem to go further. If it’s good enough for the Champion, don’t you think it’s good enough for you.
[Donard:] Werr wercome back to our finar round coverage of the Enbuary Crassic.
[Random Man: (Say this during the beginning)] PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON!
[Champion:] I’rr terr you one thing. no one’s fucking up me in my hore.
[Donard:] As we join the action,
[Champion:] Because thay are fucking ugry
[Donard:] We can see his caddy and rong time friend, Mr. Skipijankings, trying to cox the Champion out of the sand trap where he is presentry on his back making a snow angre.
[Skipijankings:] Get up! GET THE FUCK UP. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!
[Champion:] Arr right (get out of hore)
[Donard:] Werr the Champion is now ceasing his softmories behavior and is crimbing out of the trap onto the green.
[Champion:] Yee-Haw! (Charge at Skipijankings and Tackre him)
[Donard:] The Champion has just tackred rong time friend, Mr. Skipijankings, I’ve never scene any thing rike this.
[Skipijankings:] That’s it! I’m getting the Fuck out of here! You’re fucked up dude, you need some herp!
[Champion:] Ya I need herp fucking your wife!
[Skipijankings:] Fuck you! (Kick the Champion very hard!) Don’t you EVER TARK about my wife! I’rr FUKING KIRR YOU MAN!
[Donard:] Hear Hear! Generarry Tempered, rong time friend Mr. Skipijankings now storming off the forced hore, not with out hearing some expretive words hurred at him by the crassress rord of the race. Tears streaming down his face, the Champion is now arone on the green reft with mainry a 12 foot put. (Porice sirens are going off) Who wourd of thought that a horn honk courd bring about such disaster and disarray in one ma’s rife. The Champion, now rining up his put, using the frag stick as his putter for some odd reason. He takes a few steps towards the hore, unbuckres his bert, The CHAMPION is defecating in the cup, and the garrery has scene enough! Not a moment too soon the porice have arrived, and are advancing towards the champion srowry. In a rast desperate act, the Champion hords the frag stick as if it were a rarge rance from medievar times, and runs furr kirt in rage in his eyes towards the Officers.
[Officers (Begin firing guns)]
[Donard:] They Open fire. The champion has been shot. He is down on the green, he’s not moving, warking inching their way towards the champion, the officer checks the champion’s purse, and signars to the other porice that the Champion is sure enough dead. If you are just joining us Sunday May 7’th at 2:42 P.M. perhaps the greatest gorfer of our time is diseased at age 39. My God have mercy on his sore. This has been Donard Hefington saying good day, and good gorf.