Tragedy has struck Cunnington Manor.  For the last few days I have been bed ridden as my manservant, Reggie, tends to my wounds.

Yes, my lovelies…wounds.  As many of you know I attended a “key party” this last week.  Now I don’t normally go for the swinging lifestyle (Swingers tend to hail from the suburbs.  They also tend to be on the portly side…at least, that’s what I’ve gathered from watching those sexy HBO documentaries) but my steady companion of the last ten years thought it may be something worthwhile for our relationship.  Seeing as I was filled with the joy of Johnny Walker Blue (and about 4 different male enhancement supplements), I agreed to participate and thus and so we made our way to the festivities.

The place was alive with possibilities as I dropped my keys to the Bentley in a large goldfish bowl by the front door.  The host ( a wealthy sheik from the Middle East, by the by) invited my lady and I to have a drink at the bar.  I asked the bartender for a JW Blue (of course)…neat.  Father always used to say that all cultured gentlemen should drink their scotch neat.  To my horror I was told that there was no Johnny Walker Blue.  The barkeep ran through the entire list of single malt scotches and bourbons but it was all cheap swill as far as I could tell.  My intuition told me that things were about to turn ugly, but nothing could have prepared me for just how ugly.

At that moment the door flew open and a man burst through, wild-eyed and depraved.  It took me a moment but as I looked closely at the figure I realized that it was none other than Tiger Woods.  I had seen Tiger at various charity functions throughout the years and had played a round or two with him.  This was not the same Tiger.  This Tiger had completely shaved his head and was outfitted, from top to toe in a  Stanford Cardinal red suit with matching shoes.  In his hand he carried a matching red cane.  He looked more like a pimp than the world class gentlemen I had become acquainted with over the years.  And those eyes.  I shudder now as I see them in my memory; sex crazed  and angry with little humanity behind them.

He made his way to the bar and asked the bartender for a Hennessey and Coke.  He gave my lady a once over then shot a look at me, stirring his drink all the while.

“Tiger, good to see you.  It’s Nigel Cunnington from last year’s pro-am.”

He simply stared and continued to stir, never once breaking eye contact.

Now in my years of managing My Dick I have come face to face with danger too many times to recount here (I will save those stories for another day) but I must say that as I gazed into Tiger’s eyes I felt a fear like I had never known before.

“Give me your woman, ” he said, matter of factly.

“Well, Tiger, I have no problem “giving you my woman” (I actually made the quotations gesture with my hands) but I believe that there is a protocol.  You see, there’s a goldfish bowl by the door…”

Before I could finish my sentence I felt the business end of his cane strike my knee.  The pain was excruciating as I fell to the floor.  He continued to club me across the back and neck, all the while screaming, “BEHOLD MY PERFECT SWING, BITCHES!”  I confess that the last thought I had before I blacked out was how correct he was.  He really does have the perfect swing.

Alas, my lovelies, that’s the last thing I remember.  I woke up the next morning in the back seat of the Bentley with a note from my lady friend saying she was leaving me to serve her new master, Tiger.  Thankfully, I have a medicine chest (more like a steamer trunk) filled with various pain killers to ease the aches of my body.  And I’ll have my revenge on that scalawag.  For when I drift toward that drug induced slumber I see that perfect swing in technicolor detail.  Once I’m healed I’ll take that swing and fleece the lads at the country club, perhaps even go pro.

I believe a wise man once said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Cheers!

Nigel C.

PS- Many thanks to the fans of My Dick who continue to share news of the new website.  Put a piece of My Dick in your sweetie’s stocking.  Vintage concert t-shirts available at www.myrichardrocks.com.

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