The Showman Shows He's Human

Greetings, sportsfans! Bumpers here. Folks, I gotta confess something to you. Yesterday’s article was a piece of garbage. Of course, you probably already noticed that. And for that, I am sorry. I know that you, my fans, admirers and hangers-on deserve more from The Showman than a mailed-in effort. As a star and friend, I have a responsibility to deliver on your dreams. I was in a bit of a foul mood when I was writing the column in question, and I took my frustration out on you. So I apologize for yesterday, but I think, and I hope, that after I explain myself, you’ll understand.

I’m scheduled to play in the Alan Thicke Celebrity Golf Invitational this weekend. It’s a great weekend where a bunch of us famous types get together to play some golf, have some drinks and talk about how great it is to be famous. Whatever money we find lying around after the tournament ends gets donated to some charity. This year’s good cause is Recycle The Homeless. It’s an organization that helps move the homeless out of Los Angeles to the city of their choice. Granted, they’re still homeless after they move, but at least they’re not crowding these sunny sidewalks.

Anyway, for as long as I’ve been going to this thing, my foursome has been me, Alan Thicke himself, Kirk Cameron and Tracey Gold. Sort of a Growing Pains meets Uncle Rory kinda thing. We were a fantastic team, too. We won low net two out of the past three years. Which didn’t make Jack Wagner all that happy.

However, our team’s bliss was shattered last year on the 14th hole. We needed Alan to hole a five-footer for birdie to hold onto the lead. Well, "Alice" Thicke left the putt a foot short. In a flash of rage, I called him "a no-talent jackass." I may have thrown my putter at him as well. I apologized repeatedly, but was met with stony silence for the rest of the round. For whatever it’s worth, we ended up coming in fourth.

But after a few cocktails and the silent auction, Alan and I were back to chummy chummy. We had a few laughs and told a few show biz war stories. I even bid $500 on an autographed headshot of Alan just to say I’m sorry. We parted on good terms….or so I thought.

I opened my invitation this year, only to discover that my foursome is now myself, Rick Dees, Emmanuel Lewis and the bassist from The Alan Parsons Project. As it turns out, Alan had dropped me from his group and added Joanna Kearns in my place. Sort of a Growing Pains Forgets Uncle Rory kinda thing.

I tell you what, you give a guy ten great years, and for what? To be placed in the all-time worst foursome in tournament history? The Dees/Lewis/bassist combo has finished dead last, at least twelve strokes behind the field, for as long as I can remember. Most tournament veterans figured this team would just drop out after their fourth member, Stanley Kubrick, passed away last year. But I guess not, now that The Showman has saved the day.

What the hell am I going to do with these three losers? I once watched Dees four-putt from six feet. And if I have to be in a group with a stinkin’ musician, it sure as hell better be a lead singer. I mean, a bassist? Why don’t you just have the roadie play with me and call it a day?

I can’t carry this team all by myself. Maybe I’ll just tell the tournament committee my gout is acting up. Although I really want to go so I can throw a drink in Thicke’s face and tell him Animal Crack-Ups was an awful show. Damn. How do I get myself into these situations?

I’ll let you know how it goes on Monday. If I’m not in jail or the hospital.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman