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My dear Elin Woods

That is to say, Elin, if you marry the Logger one of the things you'll never miss is all that inane booze-induced golf talk stuff, about this club and that putter-blah, blah-par, eagle, birdie, whispering, shank, tee time, I hooked it, Jim Nance, wedge, the Byron Nelson. Elin, if you marry me I promise we'll never so much as drive by a golf course. Sound good? You danged well bet it does.

So that's one thing. Another thing is, and I'll be the first to say, I'm no George Clooney, but my gal superimpose Tiger into a Home Depot vest and tell me he isn't one dopey looking dude. Take away the golf swing and he'd pass for the assistant manager at Taco Bell. He's losing his hair, he's all beefed up and pudgy looking; he's constantly scowling, and Elin, those teeth! The next Christmas Eve Santa can't see through the fog, he needn't do more than hitch ol' Tiger next to Rudolph and holler, "Keep smiling, Tiger!" I have nice straight perfectly proportioned to my head teeth, teeth you'll look at and never wonder if I'm somehow related to Mr. Ed. So consider all that, my sweet lass.

Hey, going off the subject a little, what are you, Swedish?

I think you are; that is so cool and one more reason I'm not cheating on you-ever. I'm 49 years old, always been single, and one of the reasons I think I've never gotten hitched is 'cause I haven't been lucky enough to find a gal with an accent-well, beyond one slightly stoned Canadian woman on a lonely early winter night a few feet across the border. But I digress.

I dream, Elin, of coming home from my Sunday matinee comedy show at the VFW, all tired, after having earned us 250 bucks, and calling out to you: "Money bags, I'm home!" to which you'll reply from the laundry room in an oversized hoodie, pair of boxers, with hair pulled back: "I'll be zair in a zecond, I'm volding zee zocks."

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