Quick Hitters

Boston suburb passes ordinance banning public swearing.  Mimi DuPhily – the sponsor of the bill and a member of the town’s beautification committee – says the fine is $20 fine for foul language.

I want to see what Mimi has to say as the anti-government speed-freak I hire kicks in the door to her next town-hall meeting, and raises his Kalashnikov and threatens to unload a magazine full of hollow-points into the side of her dome.  Keep it clean, you speech-policing coont, or else you’ll be dealing with the taxman.

Crown Center is now banning kids from playing in the fountains

There are going to be a lot of guys trying to figure out new ways to combat their ED now!

Oldest female bodybuilder, 75, makes us all feel lazy

Can’t wait to see her on www.bodybuildersinheat.net

Lady Gaga spotted today with two black eyes

He said he wanted it Medium Rare!

Lindsay Lohan will star in her next feature film with male porn actor James Deen

At first blush, it would appear LiLo’s career has officially bottomed out.  Although Deen has stated he’s wanted to be in adult films ever since he was in kindergarten, James isn’t your prototypical male porn star.  His boyish good lucks, soft blue eyes, and washboard abs give him mainstream crossover appeal and are the reasons I’m thousands of adolescent girls are fascinated with him.  Christina Ayhlsen, 20, a student in upstate New York, describes herself as one of Deen’s biggest fans - “The first time I saw him; it was really kind of relieving, because in porn, the males are usually guys I’m not even close to being attracted to.  He just looks like somebody you could see at a coffee shop and actually approach.  He’s just a regular guy.”  Um Christina, you may want to check out your buddy on www.sexandsubmission.com – but just to warn you, they are kind of heavy on the on the forced erotic-electrostimulation over there.  Hope that doesn’t kill his boy-next-door-appeal for you.

Sherri Shepherd and Online Bullying

Online bullying is the crisis du jour in American culture, and what we certainly need, is another slactivist celebrity to raise “awareness” about the issue.   Enter The View co-host Sherri Shepherd. 

Sherri got the opportunity to pontificate on this subject when she received the following tweet on June 6: 

“@DaCloneKiller:  somebody should drag u in a back alley and rape you.” 

Apparently, Sherri wasn’t as charmed and impressed by the profundity of that pithy comment as I was. 

She responded with the following tweet: 

“We cannot let this bullying of our children……we have got to stand up to bullies – even online bullies.  Online bullying needs 2 stop @twitter – children are dying b/c they don’t know how to combat cowards like @DaClone Killer.”

Um Sherri, children aren’t dying because of some guy’s private tweet to a 45 year old public figure.  Children are dying because you say things like:  “I’m speaking as a girl who had a lot of abortions……..I was sleeping with a lot of guys and had more abortions than I would like to count.”   

First off, you’ve gotta have McKenzie Phillips-type daddy issues if you get to a point where you can’t keep track of your abortion tally.  When you need a savant with the counting abilities of Rain Main to calculate the number of pregnancies you’ve terminated, then it’s time to start discussing state-mandated sterilization.  And if you want to help the children, feel free to take one on the thigh or have your abortion-daddy toss on a bag every once in a while.   

Self Help With Bill Maplewood

For the better part of a decade, I have had to fight off the urge to self-mutilate on almost a daily basis.  I’ve been a vapid, self-loathing curmudgeon, with the self-esteem of someone residing in a battered men’s shelter.  But, as of late, my self-image is trending upward.  I think I’ve turned the proverbial corner and I want to share with you how I did it.  Hopefully you can apply this method to better your own life.  It took me a long time to realize, but what my life was missing, and what I need in abundance on a daily basis, is……………cock, copious amounts of cock.

Let me explain.

Outside of immediate family members, and that nameless “uncle” who used to invite me over to his garage every Thursday to play a game he called the “Benadryl Challenge,” I didn’t see my first flesh missile until the seventh grade.

I remember it well.

In the early 90’s, it was common practice for school administrators to cram about 30 of us seventh graders into a one-stalled bathroom, so we could change out of our gym clothes and back into our school uniforms after PE class.  This was not as pleasant as it sounds.  It was every seventh graders’ worst nightmare that the caliber of his tender and delicate manhood would be exposed to his classmates.  That is, for every seventh grader except one.

We had this kid in our class – a swarthy, Indo-Caribbean type – that was here on an exchange program and who had absolutely no inhibitions when it came to flaunting his endowment.  I remember the first time I saw him in all of his glory – it was a seminal moment in my life.

It was a late-spring afternoon and we were all drenched in sweat after a contentious game of Indian Pin.  We were packed into the gymnasium bathroom like sardines into a tin can.  Although the quarters were tight, visibility was low due to the thick haze covering the bathroom air as 30 teenage miscreants liberally applied aerosol propellants into their armpits to combat the putrid smell emanating from them.

After I finished getting dressed, I made my way over to the bathroom mirror to make sure my sides were perfectly slicked back with the perspiration I had just spent the last 45 minutes accumulating.  I noticed a shadowy figure standing in front of the mirror.  I couldn’t tell who it was – as the antiperspirant fog was still too thick – but I could tell the person was about a head taller than me, so I figured it had to be the exchange student.

As I got closer to the mirror, the density of the fog seemed to thin, and much to my surprise, I noticed the shadowy figure wasn’t wearing pants, or a towel for that matter, but before I could turn away and hurl anti-gay epithets at him, he rotated towards me and offered me a dabble of his Drakkar Noir.

And there it was.  I had never seen anything like it before in my entire life.  I remained absolutely motionless – paralyzed by fear, except for the occasional composure swallow – as I gazed admiringly at what appeared to be an ear of corn dangling between his legs.  I stood there staring at it with my mouth wide open for what seemed like an eternity, but what couldn’t have been more than 6 to 7 minutes.  Ok 8 – Tops!  In retrospect, I must have looked like Vincent Vega during that scene in Pulp Fiction when he opened Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase and was absolutely mesmerized by the contents contained therein.

This was a watershed moment and it was the first time in my life that I ever felt inadequate.  He was Peyton Manning, and I was Cooper.  For the next several years, I could not get the image of his middle leg out of my mind.  It was seared into my memory and it affected me greatly.

I began to withdraw socially from my friends at school.  I joined an anti-immigrant, neo-nazi group and spent a majority of my free time starting fires, torturing small animals, and spray-painting pentagrams on government property.  I was displaying all of the classic signs of a serial killer.

It wasn’t until two years later, when I entered high school, that I finally started to gain some perspective on what I had witnessed in the bathroom that fateful afternoon.  I joined the lacrosse team my freshman year and we split time in the locker room with the cross-country team.  Skinny, upper-crust white children, and not a minority in sight – this is exactly what the doctor ordered to repair my self-esteem.

After observing dozens of joysticks that looked similar in length and girth to mine – and a few pre-pubescent ones that made me feel like Huey Lewis, David Boreanaz, or the Imp from Game of Thrones – I realized that not everyone was as anatomically gifted as that mulatto boy in the bathroom that day.  The anxiety and self-hatred started to recede and I began to get back to my normal self.

My penile equilibrium had been restored.

Over the next few years, the only pocket rockets I saw were those of my lacrosse brethren, the 5 that were featured in the October 1996 edition of Black Tail Magazine that I kept at the back of my sock drawer, and the 7 that appeared in my VHS copy of Rag Shag 6.

This gave me a more realistic, and well-rounded, perspective of Mushroom Tip – as my portfolio pretty much ran the gamut.  The gentlemen from Black Tail Magazine represented the “long” and the “thick” end of the spectrum, while my lacrosse buddies represented the more feeble side.  That left me somewhere in the middle, which is exactly where I wanted to be.  You see, I strive for mediocrity in life – nothing more, nothing less.

Everything was great for the next several years until a few unexpected events occurred.  The first was when I blew out my knee in the mosh pit at the annual Gathering of the Juggalos, and as a result, I lost my lacrosse scholarship to Vassar, which meant no more sack tapping with the fellas in the locker room.

The second unexpected change in my life was the creation of the World Wide Web.  With the advent of the Internet, long gone were the days of flipping through the same skeet-covered pages of Swank Magazine for months on end.  I was now jumping from browser-to-browser watching well-endowed men of color pelvicly destroy petite, teenage runaways on an hourly basis.  Mandingo, Lexington Steele, and Mr. Marcus all became part of my lexicon.

In retrospect, I wish I would have spent more time on pinkydicks.com instead of WhiteHoleBlackPole.com, because like the seventh-grade foreign kid, this had a profound effect on my self-image.

This was the beginning of a 10 year distortion of my phallical equipoise.

You see, for most nights over that decade, I was my own wife.  It was a dark and lonely time in my life and it’s amazing to look back on the statistics:  4 diddles per week, 10 scenes per session, 52 weeks per year.  Let me channel my inner Steven Hawking and tally some numbers real quick – ok, that’s like over 2,000 units per annum.  Multiply that by 10 years and – BAM!  I laid eyes on well over 20,000 jollyrods throughout my 20’s.

And let’s not kid ourselves, there was nothing ‘jolly’ about those rods.  Most were quite menacing, actually.  The majority of male erotica stars were popping handfuls of Extenze and mainlining Viagra into the zenith of their member only moments before it appeared on camera, which left it twitching like a body builder who had been abusing steroids since the mid-70’s.

After viewing 20,000 engorged, pulsating, heaping masses of vascular flesh, it was easy for me to feel like I had more in common with a triple-A battery than I did with the average male.  My sense of genital reality had been skewed, and since I was no longer playing sports, I had no frame of reference for how I was sizing up with those outside of the adult-film industry.  I thought all of the tallywackers I was seeing on the Internet were the norm.

I didn’t realize that these were outlier knobs until about 3 months ago when my company instituted a wellness program.  As part of the wellness program, they gave us free memberships to a gym right down the street from our office.  My boss encouraged us to head over there as soon as possible to explore the facilities.

As lunch time hit, I immediately got in my car and drove over to sign up at the new gym.  When I arrived, I was greeted by a very pleasant elderly woman who insisted on giving me a tour of the gym.  I agreed and as we walked through the gym everything seemed pretty normal – free weights, treadmills, elliptical machines, etc.  She then instructed me to take a walk through their world-class men’s locker room, to see all of their wonderful accoutrements – saunas, steam rooms, Jacuzzis, etc.

I agreed but little did I know what was waiting for me on the other side of the locker room door – Rigs, and lots of them.  I’ve never seen so much disco stick in one place in all my life.  There must have been 60-70 in my immediate line of sight – and I was only two steps in the door.

You see, what my boss failed to mention, was that this gym marketed and tailored its services toward the “executive crowd,” which is absurdly euphemistic.  This place was freaking Heaven’s waiting room.  I was the youngest person in the joint by 25 years.  Now, I didn’t have a problem with that, I just wished he would have given me a heads up that I was walking into a morgue.

You see, the main difference between old people and young people, is that old people don’t give a rip about being seen in their birthday suit, while young people do.  Maybe it’s a generational thing, or maybe they just don’t care because they’ve got more yesterdays than tomorrows.

Walking into an old persons’ locker room, you’re bound to see some cryptic, old Jewish lawyer, with liver spots and a couple of hip replacement scars, standing stick-to-stick with his financial advisor, who is wearing nothing but a headband and wingtips, talking about shorting the mortgage-backed-securities market.  These guys are completely naked, and it’s the most normal thing in the world.  Their schmekels are virtually tip-to-tip, and the only thing separating their discolored genital veins, are a couple sheaths of translucent skin.  It’s amazing.

That just doesn’t happen in a young persons’ gym.  You’re likely to see more skin on the average woman walking the streets of Tehran, than you will in a men’s locker room at 24-Hour Fitness.

At first, all of this new-found wang kind of weirded me out.  I mean, I went from not seeing an in-person schlong in 10 years to seeing about 60 per day.  It’s like being a virgin on Monday, and filming interracial bukkake scenes by Tuesday.  It was all going so fast.

But after awhile, I noticed the positive effects that it was having on my self esteem.  You see, it is very important for me to feel like my manhood is in line with the median – that there are as many below as there are above, and I spent the previous decade watching Internet videos that made me feel like I was hung like the Statue of David.  This was the first attempt – albeit, unknowingly – that I had made to counterbalance all of the damage I had done to my psyche over the previous years, and it felt good.

Obviously, 20,000 is a large number, but if my calculations are correct, then I should be back to par in a little over a year.  I’m at the gym 5 times per week, laying eyes on about 60 gigglesticks per workout, which puts me at about 300 per week.  Multiply that by 52 and you’ve got a little over 15,000 per year.

I’ve also been lurking around the Shoney’s salad bar on weekends trying to get some extra credit.  I’ll usually sneak up behind some unsuspecting senior citizen and recommend that he try some of the delicious blue cheese crumbles located towards the back of the spread.  As he leans over to reach the recommended delicacy, I will tilt my mirror-taped-shoe under his pastel tennis shorts to see what he’s got under the hood.  I’ll usually get in 3 or 4 before management asks me to leave.  I usually feel great on my drive home even though I’ve just committed a class-C felony.

Anyway, Bill Maplewood looks to be a new man by the spring of 2013, and if you follow my advice, you can too.

John Daly

The recent Bobby Petrino scandal has thrust the state of Arkansas into the national spotlight and has given the rest of us an opportunity to let out a collective chortle at the Natural State’s expense.  Long considered the apartment below the party, Arkansas has never been given much respect.

To call Arkansas America’s unwanted, red-headed stepchild would be an understatement.  A more apt description, is that Arkansas is like the baby girl that is born to a family living under communist China’s repressive one-child policy.   But, unlike the Chinese peasantry, America can’t simply discard its’ weakest link by leaving it in a grease dumpster behind a local fast food restaurant.  So, since we’re stuck with ‘em, we might as well look for the good in ‘em.  And the best part about Arkansas is its favorite son – John Patrick Daly, the third Honorary Member of the KCMothership.com.

Daly – who has been suspended from the PGA tour five times, placed on probation six times, cited for “conduct unbecoming a professional” 11 times, and 21 times for “failure to give best efforts” – is not your typical professional golfer.

To begin, John – or Long John as he’s known around Tour clubhouses – doesn’t look like many other professional golfers.  While most of Daly’s colleagues are usually decked out in pleated Haggars and Van Heusen sweater vests, Daly has more of a good-ole-boy fashion sense.  And that is putting it kindly.  Let’s just say that Michael Moore thinks this guy needs to put a little more time and effort into his apparel decisions.  And his style is trending downwards.  In the 90’s, it was stone-washed Jordache jeans, an oversized braided leather belt, and a Big-Johnson T-shirt.  Today, it is the ocular calamity that is known as Loudmouth Golfing Apparel.  Let me put it to you like this – I would rather look down the barrel of a water-pistol filled with Greg Louganis’ saliva, than look at that clothing line ever again.  Craig Sager considers that catalog to be breathtakingly obnoxious.  I prefer my Daly au-natural.

Daly’s physique also differentiates him from his counterparts.  When asked in an interview how often he exercises, the Lion responded, “I tried to, but every time I worked out, I threw up.  And so I thought to myself, you can get drunk and throw up, so it’s just not for me.”  I envision a long and lucrative career as a motivational speaker after his playing days are over.  Daly further added, “There are probably some things I could do to keep my flexibility up, but I’d rather smoke, drink Diet Cokes, and eat.  I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever stepped into a gym or a health club – they won’t let me smoke in there.”

Daily’s weight eventually ballooned to 350 pounds.  By this point, let’s just say he had the sex appeal of heated diarrhea.  John has battled weight issues ever since he was a kid.  He celebrated his 17^th birthday in style by shoving “17 tacos” down his sloth-hole, before heading across the street to Burger Kind for dessert, which consisted of a “double hot-fudge sundae and a Whopper with cheese.”  Hopefully his birthday present was 30 tablets of Lipitor.

John never thought his weight was an issue until he showed up to play golf for the University of Arkansas.  His college coach wouldn’t let him play with the team until he lost 60 pounds.   Daly took that as a personal challenge and set out to shed the LB’s and prove his coach wrong.  By the spring semester, Daly was down 65 pounds thanks to a strict diet of (and I kid you not):  “3 packs of Marlboro Mediums per day, dry popcorn, and Jack Daniels.”  I’m guessing he was a Nutritional Science major.  This diet led to his “first” alcohol-induced coma after he consumed 4 “fifths” of Jack Daniels on a stomach full of nothing more than Orville Redenbacher.

The binge-eating and yo-yo dieting continued for the next 25 years until John underwent Lap-Band Surgery in 2009 to limit his food consumption.  This is the perfect example of a “first world” problem.  Let me ask you this – how many Sudanese children do you know that have to get their stomachs stapled because they can’t back away from the dinner table and put down the dust-beetles?

But Daly has dropped over 100 pounds thanks to the surgery and a new diet, which consists of “4 McDonald’s double cheeseburgers per day.”  Oh, but don’t worry, he doesn’t eat the buns, because all he does is “put protein in this body.”  Dude, it would probably just be healthier to toot lines of Fen-Phen, at this point.  I mean, his blood must circulate through his body like Elmer’s glue.  But, at least he’s no longer eating “15-to-20 packs of Peanut M&M’s per round of golf.”

Although John Boy may have toned down the overeating, he’s still going strong with sodas and lung darts.  Ya see, “nicotine plus caffeine equals protein.”  In his autobiography My Life In and Out of the Rough:  The Truth Behind All That Bulls**t You Think You Know About Me, Daly estimates that he rips close to 18,250 death sticks per annum, and over 514 GALLONS of Diet Coke – based on fifteen cans per day – every year.

After winning the 1995 British Open, JD famously chugged a Diet Coke out of the Claret Jug, which is the famed and prestigious trophy presented to the winner of this hallowed tournament.  Merica, baby!  Take that you Limey Redcoats.  Nothing says world domination like turning another country’s esteemed national treasures into the equivalent of a makeshift Big Gulp.

John’s most notorious vice is the sauce.  As previously mentioned, Daly slipped into his ‘first’ alcohol induced coma when he was a freshman in college, but this wasn’t his first dalliance with Grandpa’s cough syrup.  He downed his first beer when he was 8 years old (what were you doing in the second grade?), and next developed a taste for his parents’ homemade wine.  But his real predilection was Jack Daniels.  It was his father’s drink of choice, and after the 14-year-old’s first sip of the Tennessee whiskey at his sister’s wedding, it became his, too.

To be more specific, JD’s drink of choice was a triple Jack Daniels on the rocks, no water, 3 at a time.  Now, I don’t mean to go all Will Hunting on you and formulate a series of advanced calculus theorems on my bathroom mirror, but that’s like 9 servings of alcohol every time he orders a drink.  Keith Richards thinks that’s excessive.  But, as John used to always say, “Most people would be drunk for two weeks on the amount of Jack Daniels I used to have before dinner.”

Now, John may have drunk himself into a whiskey-induced coma on more than one occasion, but it’s not like he was putting anyone else in danger.  Take a look at this quote regarding a drinking binge while he was playing on the South African Tour, and I’m sure you’ll feel a little safer about John’s drinking habits:

“But I was lucky I didn’t kill myself because I wasn’t used to driving on the wrong side of the road and I was drinking pretty heavy while I was there. Wrong side of the road and a lot of booze—not a good combo.  One night I’d been drinking really hard—and back then, that could have been just about any night—and I was pissed off about something. Me and Jimmy McGovern and a couple of other guys were going home late from some bar. He was riding shotgun, and I ran this red light, and then another one, and pretty soon I’m like, fuck it, and I just kept on going. The guys said later I ran through 17 straight reds before they could get me to pull over so somebody else could drive.”

Who taught this guy how to operate a motor vehicle?  Ted Kennedy?

When you’re rolling around .35 drunk on a nightly basis, it’s going to raise a few eyebrows.  As John’s success on the course grew, more and more people became interested in JD’s extracurricular activities.  The PGA ordered John to go to rehab 7 times, and his sponsors and creditors often required that he take antidepressants to ensure he wouldn’t fall off the wagon.  For many years he was mixing Lithium, Prozac, Ritalin, Xanax, Valium, and a slew of other prescription meds.  Dude was a walking chemistry set.

It’s tough to say if JD is still drinking.  His autobiography came out in 2006, and up to that point, John had probably been to rehab about 4 times.  Here is how he addressed it in a section entitled Q and A:

“Question:  Are You Still Drinking? Answer: That’s a one-part question, but let me give you a two-part answer.  1.) If I was still drinking whiskey, I wouldn’t be drinking anything right now. I’d be dead.  That’s the truth, and I know it.  2.) I drink beer.  Miller Lite.  Sometimes just a little.  Sometimes more.  And sometimes—not as much I used to, but sometimes—too much.”

Um, thank you for that nuanced clarification, John.  Can I come to your next retox party?

John’s most recent public drinking faux pas happened in 2009 when police were called because JD was fueled out of his mind and passed out in front of a local Hooters.  He got to spend the night in the drunk tank and got a fantastic glamour shot out of the incident, so it wasn’t all bad.

John is a man of many vices, but his gambling addiction is the one he fears the most.  As of 2006, JD had lost around $55 million gambling over his career.  Here is an excerpt from his book about a six hour gambling run he made after the 2005 AMEX Championship Golf Tournament where he lost to Tiger Woods in a playoff:

“I made $750,000 for finishing second, and generally felt pretty good.  I was real disappointed I hadn’t won, but at least I’d had a really nice payday.  But instead of going home and closing the 2005 PGA Tour on a high note, I went straight to Vegas.  My first stop was the new Wynn Las Vegas casino, where they have this $5,000 slot machine.  Within an hour and a half, I was down $600,000.  There went all that hard work against Tiger.  Actually, in less than five hours, I lost $1.65 million.”

$5,000 slots?  $600k in 90 minutes?  $1.65 million in 5 hours?  I probably would have violently plunged a phillips-head screwdriver into my temporal lobe after a couple hundy, so I gotta give JD credit for not penning a farewell note and then giving a tearful mouth-hug to the cold, iron, sawed-off end of a double–barrel, 12-gauge shotgun.

And Daly absolutely loves the slots.  In his book, he goes into intimate detail regarding some of his 15-hour slot sessions.  Imagine what that must look like.  Picture a row of blue-hairs with their Chesterfields and Benson and Hedges dangling from their wrinkly, pruney lips, pumping away their Social Security checks into the nickel slots, and then sitting right beside them, you’ve got this rubenesque figure, who is half their age, with a couple of Marlboro Mediums hanging out of his pie hole, dropping the equivalent of a Hallbrook mortgage payment with every pull of the lever.  Dwarf amongst midgets.  Respect.

Again, it’s tough to tell if he is still gambling:

“So here’s my plan.  Every time I go to the casino, I start with the $25 slots.  Plus, I set a loss number, and once I hit that number, I walk out.  If I make a little bit, then maybe I move up to the $100 slots or the $500s or maybe I take it to a blackjack table.  Why not try to double it? And if I make a lot …Well, that’s my plan. It’s a start.”

Well, now that we are all comfortable that John will never step foot into another casino again, let’s move onto another facet of his life – marriages.

John has been married and divorced 4 times.  Somebody needs to explain to him the concept of bone and disown.  You don’t have to drop a rock on everything you sleigh, hombre.

In 1987, at the ripe old age of 21, John married a hand model from Memphis named Dale.  Um, Dale?  Did she have a huge bulge in her throat and a very muscular back?  What kind of name is that for a woman?  John said the spark fell out of the marriage because of her incessant nagging about his drinking.  This was right around the time he was playing on the South African Tour.

So, let me get this straight, your wife had marital concerns over the fact that you were in a foreign land squandering your meager earnings on drink and harlots, while operating heavy machinery under the influence of prescription drugs and hard alcohol?  Fascist!  The marriage lasted all of three years and ended amicably.

John met his second wife – Bettye – in 1992 when he was 24 and she was 29.  They dated for a little over a year and had a passionate love affair.  Here is John’s take on the relationship:

“It’s hard to imagine any two people having sex more often than me and Bettye.  Our best single day together came on Masters Sunday in 1991. I had played that morning in the final round of the Deposit Guaranty Golf Classic in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, an event they used to schedule the same week as the Masters for guys like me who hadn’t qualified. I shot an ugly 78 after going 68-71-68 in the first three rounds, so I was in a foul, hateful mood. That changed pretty quick, though, because me and Bettye laid up in bed and watched the whole last round of the Masters with the sound turned off, listening to Randy Travis and screwing like crazy. All told, we did it 10 times that day.”

Sounds about as romantic as the love scene in The Accused.

Unfortunately for John, their passionate love affair came to a screeching halt about 14 months into the relationship when John found out that Bettye had misrepresented a few things about herself – specifically, she wasn’t 29, but 40, and she was married with a 13 year old kid.  A timeless quote from the Oscar-winning movie Kingpin comes to mind:  “I’ve been liquored up for 17 years.  My judgment’s not what it once was.”

John continues:

“So before Christmas, I told her to pack up her shit and get out. I told her I was going back to Dardanelle to be with people I loved—and trusted.  And then she dropped the P-bomb on me: she told me she was pregnant.  My first reaction?  Bullshit.  By then I knew she’d been lying to me about just about everything else in her life—why wouldn’t she be lying about this?  It’s true, she said.  Prove it, I said.  (Shit, she didn’t look pregnant. She looked as good as ever.) But, as it turned out, she was about four months gone.”

Four months?  That’s it?  Oh John, it wasn’t too late.  It’s never too late.  You should’ve called.  I’ve got a guy in the Northwest Arkansas region who works late term.  And he’s cheap, too.  All you gotta pay for is the oil funnel, lighter fluid and labor.  He’ll provide the stirrups.

Sounds like she may have hoodwinked him on this one.  He should have demanded a Maury Povich paternity test to legitimize her claims.

John’s first child was born in June of ‘92 and I know what you all are thinking:  was it a vaginal childbirth?  No, it was not.  She went cesarean and I think that was the right move.  Those Daly kids are mighty husky.  Passing a 13-lb ham hock through a two-inch gash would probably leave some serious wreckage.  Torn labia; ruptured vaginal canal; collapsed uterine wall – it’d be like the gynecological equivalent to 9/11.  And plus, vaginoplasties are running upwards of 20k these days, so you might as well take care of it on the front end.  Good call, John.

But his second marriage fell apart almost as fast as it came together.  Six months after the birth of his child, John was arrested for third-degree assault on Bettye.  Although Bettye proclaimed he never actually hit her, she called the cops because she feared for her safety during one of John’s whiskey-fueled outbursts.  Sounds like she was ovaryacting.  The details are convoluted, and John denies ever touching her, but he ultimately pled guilty to the misdemeanor charges and the divorce papers were filed a few months later.

Six months after his divorce was finalized, John met his third wife at the Bob Hope Classic when he “was so damned hungover that he was chugging Diet Cokes like they were beers.”  They were married six months after they met and she bore his second child.  The relationship was tame compared to his preceding and subsequent marriages; she just grew tired of life on the road travelling in John’s RV from tournament to tournament.  You can’t really blame her, can you?  Would you want to shower and brush your teeth 3 feet from where John Daly drops heat?

John met his fourth wife – Sherrie Miller – in May of 2001 and married her 57 days later.  Daly salted her eggs shortly thereafter and she evicted his first son – Little John – from her womb in 2003.  The marriage lasted nine years but it was a very rocky nine years, to say the least.  Five days after Little John popped out, Sherrie and her parents were arrested by federal authorities on drug and money laundering charges.  What, no child trafficking to go along with it?  What kind of crime syndicate is this?  Everyone knows that’s where the money is.  Amateurs.

The family was using their used car business as a shell to hide the proceeds from a large scale cocaine, methamphetamine and gambling operation.    All three pled guilty and were sentenced to federal correctional facilities.  Sherrie’s father was the ringleader, so he received a 2.5 year sentence, while Sherrie and her mother only got 5 months.  Hopefully her father learned a lesson.

The trouble with Sherrie didn’t stop there.  In 2006, John filed a complaint against her for carving up his grill with a steak knife.  John and Sherrie finally divorced in 2010 after she caught John in bed with another woman.  John was eventually awarded custody of Little John.  So, at least there is one person in this world that John is better than.

Frankly, I could go on with JD stories for about another 20 pages, so I’m going to have to cut it off at this point.  I tried to keep it as brief as I could, but the guy is absolutely fantastic and has so many stories, issues, and sayings.

So, let me leave you with one last classic JD story from his book.  He was out partying with his crew in Memphis one night – crushing cow and guzzling brewskis – when he felt some tightness in his chest.  He told the limo driver to beeline to the emergency room.   The following story picks up about 30 minutes after he arrives at the hospital:

“That being the case, I call Sisinni in and ask him to do me a couple of favors. I ask him to bring me a cup of water, please, and he does. What he thinks I’m going to do, he told me later, is take some pills or something. What I do instead is fire up a Marlboro Light, using my cup of water as an ashtray. The next thing I ask him to do is go out and bring back a Whopper with cheese and a double order of fries. There’s a Burger King right close to the hospital, and it’s been a while since the barbecue, and I don’t know how long they’re going to keep me tied down there. And pretty soon, the doctor does come in, only the first thing he tells me is to put out my cigarette at once. Don’t I know this is a hospital? Yes, I do know it, thank you very much. And I also know that I’ve never ever before been ushered out of a hospital so fast—and without even having to get my stomach pumped.”

St. Patrick’s Day

Leonard Kyle Dykstra