The following is a transcript of the presentation speech prepared by Speaks with Fish! as he handed over the Broken Arrow Sportsmanship Award. As is the custom of the tribe, it arrives in the form of a poem…
So begins the year of the Elk…
No longer a bride,
And finally — Chief of our Tribe!
The mission from Fook HQ was clear,
Don your tuxedo and bring lots of beer,
Cause Fook’ 007 will be a reason to cheer!
Who better to remind us we are men?
Bond. James Bond.
Hrm… or maybe that blonde across the pond!
Twelve of us came —
Wait, make that eleven —
No, instead it’s ten —
Now it’s eleven again… and then ten —
Cause Turtle Thunder is yaking in the Fook’n trash bin!
So who should receive this gift of dread?
It’ll be mine no more — that’s a relief!
Maybe, Turk… he doesn’t care about the money and just wants to be Chief.
No. Instead it’ll be someone who’s had lots of success.
Like someone who has no room left for embroidery on his collar.
From the high handicappers, can I get a hoop and a hollar!
To you Bullseye*, I bestow the sportsmanship award.
Now it’s not mine, thank you Lord!
Hear me very well, for it’s now a curse…
Kinda like a big fat “L”,
Or a secret-agent man-purse.
So as the sun sets on another Fookarwie,
And we enjoy these chops straight from the barbie,
To each I raise my glass…
Cause Fook’ 007 has been a blast!
2 replies on “007. Fook 007.”
There once was a man from Alatucket,
Played golf with his head in a bucket,
A speciman I’ll be,
By the next Fook you’ll see,
I’ll win the damn thing or say —- it!
Wow… what to say?
Never thought I’d see the day
that Fish would rather write in prose
and never fearing to expose
his rather loose interpretation
of verbs in conjugation.
Really, did you think you’d see
all the gents from Fookarwie
writing back and forth today,
with memories of yesterday,
addled by cigars and liquor
and wit that couldn’t be any quicker?
I, for one, did not, and I’d be willing to bet
that this is new for you, and yet…
None of you seem too surprised
that your man card may be compromised
by tossing out poems to a group of men
who’d go to hell and back again…
For just one chance — one fleeting chance —
to do a little victory dance
with head held high,
a tear slipping from either eye
as they retell with wild exaggeration
how they saved their team from conflagration
Down the fairways, through the trees
they brought their opponents to their knees
and stomped on their throats and left ugly scars
pursuing strategies so bizarre
they can only be described as unexpected
“I’m all in” was how he betted.
And “all in” he was, and so was I,
and I admit that I was teary-eyed
when we talked of life and love and friends
and I can’t wait to do it again.
So good work, Fooks, and well done Berry.
And congrats to Silver and to Hairy.
You all prevailed and persevered
for the rest, we look on to next year.
When we’ll have a chance to win the Chief
and bring him home to disbelief
of kids and wives and neighbors, too
Who don’t have very much faith in you.
But I do, friend, I’ll say it again: I do,
I think that you can muddle through.
If GoldenBond can show up
and Turtle Thunder throws up
Then none of us can say which way
the winds of chance will blow that day!