Stop e-mailing, all right? All I did is give Paris Hilton golf lessons. "Personal swing coach" is not what all you technophile geeks apparently think it is. This is Paris Hilton we're talking about. You think she needs coaching on how to swing with another couple or from the chandeliers for that matter? That's like Larry Bird requiring a personal free-throw shooting coach.
It's golf, dummies. So stop e-mailing. Your high-tech version of Crank Yankers is threatening to drive me out of business. The phone calls were one thing. I can just turn off the cell, toss it down into the Grand Canyon and let it ring and ring echoes forever. The cell phone doesn't bother me. It's part of the price of having a business relationship with Paris. Notice how the only ones publicly moaning about their phone numbers ending up on the Internet are never-has-beens like Victoria Gotti.
"I got 100 calls in two hours,'' Gotti told the New York Daily News. ".Finally, at 5:30 a.m., I took them off the hook. This morning I put them back on and they started ringing immediately. It's driving me insane."
Sure, it is, Victoria. Like people are calling you when Ashley Olsen, Anna Kournikova, Eminem, Vin Diesel and Big Bad Golfer's digits were spilled from Paris' electronic address box. That's right, Big Bad Golfer. I try to keep a low profile here running BadGolfer.com, partly because there may be an arrest warrant out there for me in a few states and foreign lands (OK, the maybe is a definite in Mexico), partly because the higher-ups here put up with me like an Uncle Fester in the attic. As long as I'm not making "too" much trouble over here in my BadGolfer.com world and I'm bringing in the eyeballs, the main boss leaves me alone. But when a major fuss breaks, the stockholders have been known to get their panties in a bunch.
Which brings us to Paris' cellphone hack. My private BadGolfer.com work e-mail ended up being broadcast all over cyberspace last weekend. A small fish in the Christina Aguilera, Avril Lavigne, Lindsay Lohan address pond, I nevertheless found myself caught in hell. Within a half hour my in-box became so flooded with incessant messages that it crashed the entire BadGolfer.com server. Suddenly, the entire site went black (No, contrary to many of your questions, we didn't get shut down by the authorities).
Which sent Mr. Lewis threw the roof. This isn't a Victoria Gotti operation after all. We've got to actually work to make a living.
All this for just trying to help my fellow man. Or hotel heiress in this case. When Paris Hilton came to me privately and asked for assistance with her swing, I couldn't say no. She seemed serious about her golf game. She was thinking of adding a PGA star to her dating lineup (not sure which one, she wasn't sure which one yet). This was after the infamous sex tape of innocent Paris and Rick Salomon, the on-again, off-again husband of former 90210 star Shannen Doherty, went Internet public, and before Paris started seeing married Bears linebacker Brian Urlacher. Maybe. Who can keep track? And what's time anyways but an artificial measure thought up by The Man?
Anyway, point is Paris was in a vulnerable state and needed someone to read her greens. Enter Big Bad Golfer. Ever the gentleman, I preceded to give golf lessons to Ms. Hilton over the next several months, often getting flown in on Hilton daddy's private jet to the obscure locations where Paris and her angrier, ditzier sidekick Nicole Ritchie were filming FOX's The Simple Life (by the way if you think Paris and Nicole actually stay with those families, you must believe Ryan Seacrest is talented). But I digress.
The point is a multi-gazillionaire, blonde bimbo needed some assistance and I stepped up. I'm selfless like that. Paris proved to be a quick study. She's not the next Michelle Wie, but she's no Roseanne Barr athlete either. She has a smooth, fluid swing. The only problem is Paris kept ending up in the rough. It almost like she's was aiming for it. She loved whacking balls out of the rough and seemed to turn her nose down at the fairway.
Another tension arose over the need to play golf in the daytime. Paris just couldn't get that, kept saying she didn't get out of bed before 2 p.m. for anything less than $2 million. And you thought Butch Harmon had a demanding pupil?
But the best teachers adapt and before long, Paris and I reached a mutual understanding and her game blossomed. I'm proud to say I was there the first time she agreed to look "the commoner carrying her bags," in the eye. Big breakthrough. She kept saying she wanted to shot a 69 though. Don't know what that was all about.
So there you have it, the whole truth and something but the truth. Nothing lewd, nothing titillating, just an ordinary fugitive swing coach/hotel heiress relationship. So stop e-mailing Big Bad Golfer. All you cyber nerds who flocked to Paris' address book like salmon going to spawn, need to get over it. There's nothing to obsess over here.
It's true Ms. Hilton recently denied any knowledge of Big Bad Golfer. What'd you expect her to say? Denying relationships with men is a reflex for her, like making bad movies has become for Woody Allen. I'm putting our swing sessions out into the open to stop the insanity once and for all. And yes, there is a video you can buy for $14.99, but that's besides the point. I just want my server back.
Save the Matt Drudge Internet detective work as well. I don't need my private life poked into like I'm some W.-planted White House reporter. The real name's Sammy Finch, brother of the great pitcher Sid, distant, distant illegitimate cousin of George Plimpton.
There, are you satisfied?
February 24, 2005
I've been slumming it out on cheap public courses my entire life. At one point, aren't I entitled as a lifelong golfer to finally enjoy the fruits of my suffering on a well conditioned, thoughtfully designed private course from one of the game's premier architects?
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