Hey there, shithead! It's me, 2006 Masters Tournament champion and professional ass-kicker Phil Mickelson, here to tell you all the reasons I'm more awesome than you.
For one thing, I'm known for being left-handed when I play golf, but right-handed when I write stuff on my scorecard. Even the President of China doesn't have the power to make people care about which hand he uses for what thing. And if you want to know which one I use to spank it, I ain't tellin' ya! (It's both.)
Secondively, they named a beer after me. A good one, too. Who doesn't love a good Mickelobson?
Best of all, I own one of those bitchin' green Masters jackets. You may think it's just a great article of clothing to get wet and snap at strangers' asses in the YMCA locker room (which I do all the time), but it's also a ticket into any place you want to go.
Let me list a few for ya', just to let you know how much less kick-ass you are than I am. Here's a hint: a lot.
The Great Old Sportsman's Club, established 1787
The exclusive club by champions, for champions, by champions. Only athletes that reach the peak of sports achievement get to come to this club, which is located two miles beneath the earth's surface. I get to hang out with Michael Jordan, Secretariat, Dale Earnhardt's car and the corpse of Babe Ruth. We sit around, smoke stogies and kick each other in the junk. Snack on that, pussy!
The White House War Room
It's a little known fact that every year's Masters champ automatically gets a post in the President's administration as Golf Advisor. I can just picture you there in your gay little reading chair asking why the President needs a gold advisor. Well, lots of reasons, bucko. But the main one involves sitting in the War Room (yes, the real deal war room that they showed in that PBS documentary Austin Powers ) and making sure all the president's war analogies are accurate. So when he says shit like, "Boy, we shanked that one," after accidentally bombing a school or something, I can nod and say, "You got it, sir."
The Super-Secret-Secret Room in Every Strip Club in the Country
Sure, you've heard that every strip club has a secret room for athletes that come in. And you may have even heard of the secret-secret room that the good athletes get to go to. But I bet you've never heard of the super-secret-secret room that only a) green jackets b) Super Bowl rings and c) T-shirts saying, "I am a billionaire" can get you into. And I'll tell ya', you can't even imagine the kind of shit that goes down in there. I will tell you this: The strippers show you everything they got, including a secret type of genitals most guys have never heard of called the vagina. Go easy chief, it's pronounced with a soft g , not that you'll ever need to know.
The 19th Hole at Augusta
The most exclusive bar in all of golf, Augusta National's 19 th Hole is only available to Masters champs and club members. And, believe me, you don't want to know what kind of shit you have to do to become a member. Let's just say it involves a lot of gay sex.
The Set of Two and a Half Men
They just let you walk right on, no questions asked. Sheen's a riot, and you can't beat the three-ways he has in his dressing room with that little pudgy chick with the bowl cut.
Tiger Woods' Wife's Mouth
Most don't know it , but Swedish supermodels just downright love dudes in green jackets. I mean, she married Tiger because he's got, like, 20 or something, but all you need is one to get at least a couple pokes.
There's this store at the mall run exclusively by professional referees where they have all kinds of crap like Nike cross-trainers and mesh shorts and hooded sweatshirts. Well, I walked in there just a few weeks ago with my Masters' jacket on, and all the referees there basically jumped to attention to get me all the athletic equipment I could ever need, and all for only $750. Try doing that without a Masters jacket, loser. They also laughed at all my jokes about technical fouls and getting sent to the bench, because they know I'm so great.
What can I say? Jesus loves the jacket. I can pretty much do anything I want here, like insist that I'm better than all you (which I am). It's just one of the perks you little bastards will never know about.
That's just life (and death, if I'm not immortal as I have long suspected) for the Mickelsonmeister.