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adam sandler - champion lyrics

the champion
donald: welcome back on this glorious sunday afternoon for the final round of the enbuary cl-ssic. the legendary champion is now approaching the 18’th tee off with an insomauntible 8th stroke lead.
the champion: well let’s wrap this thing up
donald: the gallery lets the champion know what a fine three days of golf he has had. the always charming champion is now taking time to high five a young spectator and the boy, the boy is awestruck. haha, the gallery erupts into delight
random person in the gallery: go get them champ!
donald: yes yes. i think it would be hard to find in any sport a champion who is as beloved as this one. and the encouraging gallery goes silent. eight strokes ahead of the pack, the champion slowly starts his back swing.
(honking car h-rn)
champion: four! (hit the golf ball.)
donald: oh no no! apparently the honking h-rn had some sort of concentration effect on the champion’s usual monstrous drive.
champion: is that greag normen’s kid or something?
(gallery begins to laugh.)
donald: the champion shakes it off and makes some sort of humorous remark about the h-rn to the gallery and they eat it up.
champion: let’s get the ball back on the field.
donald: yes yes, well now the champion, his caddy, and the elendent gallery make their way to the champion’s ball, which is unfortunately larged next to a very thick tree route. the champion and his caddy talk it over. he; s going to play it safe and punch out with a 7 iron with a 8 stroke lead this is simply smart play by the legendary champion. he approaches the ball. let’s watch.
champion: take a swing at the ball hitting the tree route in the process)
donald: oh, well i. i don’t think that’s what the champion had in mind when he took that swing. the ball is now 10 yards. um into the woods after ricoshaying off the tree route, and ther’s a look of pain on the champion’s face. he is shaking his hands as if to say i did not have a strong enough grip on the club when i hit the tree route, and my hands are stinging quite badly.
champion: (start grunting)
donald: the champion is starting to mutter some obscenities about the car h-rn, which if you just joined us blew earlier during the champion’s back swing at the 18’th tee off. well now his caddy and friend of 25 years, mr. skipijankings, is doing every thing he can to get the champion’s mind back on track.
skipijankings: (say line during: is doing every thing he can…) forget about the car h-rn, let’s just win this thing!
champion: hahah, you’re right.
donald: what wonderful veteran words of wisdom. the champion nods in agreement, and heads into the woods to set up for his third shot which he will have to play out of a dreadfully muddy lie. he’s sticking with his 7 iron closes the club face a little. he starts his swing.
champion: (swing at ball)
donald: and the ball did not move, um if anything it’s a little deeper in the mud.
champion: what is this f–king quick sand?!
donald: the champion is now conferring with co-rs- marshal, david canner.
champion: what do i do next?
david: gonna have to drop one.
donald: and yes i. it has been ruled that his ball is unplayible, he will take a drop and a one stroke penally.
champion: (start laughing a bit too hard as if you where drunk)
donald: and the champion is now laughing very hard, uh one might say a little too hard, but none of the less, he drops his new areo fly ball and resumes play.
gallery: (start to clap)
donald: back with his trusty 3 wood, the champion lines up his shot. he starts his back swing.

champion: (fart)
donald: he flatuates. stops his swing, and steps away from his ball, and whispers something too his caddy, mr. skipijankings.
skipijankings: wha? what do you mean you got to take a sh-t?
champion: i’ve got to sh-t.
skipijankings: finish the f–king hole, we’ve got to win this mother f–ker!
random man in gallery: jesus christ man!
donald: well now the champion is staring angrily at his caddy. he continues to star for quite some time, and then abruptly walks back to his ball; not taking much time set up at all he swings,
champion: (swing at the ball.)
connects, a smash of a hit!
gallery: (applaud)
donald: starting to slice, oh no it goes directly into the center of a man-made water hazard!
champion: you’ve got to be f–king kidding me!
donald: the champion slowly walks over to his golf bag, unzips it, and pulls out, hmm what i believe is a 16 oz silver beverage container and starts drinking in large gulps. why don’t we take this time for a word from our sponcers, and then we will return to our final round coverage of the enbuary cl-ssic. (whispers: well i have no idea what he was thinking)
announcer guy: what do 17 major championships, over 6 million dollars in prize money, and the complete domination of the sport of golf have in common? two things: the champion, and areo fly b-lls. areo fly b-lls, they just seem to go further. if it’s good enough for the champion, don’t you think it’s good enough for you.
donald: well welcome back to our final round coverage of the enbuary cl-ssic.
random man: (say this during the beginning) put your shirt back on!
champion: i’ll tell you one thing. no one’s f–king up me in my hole.
donald: as we join the action,
champion: because thay are f–king ugly
donald: we can see his caddy and long time friend, mr. skipijankings, trying to c-x the champion out of the sand trap where he is presently on his back making a snow angle.
skipijankings: get up! get the f–k up. what the f–k are you doing?!
champion: all right(get out of hole)
donald: well the champion is now ceasing his softmories behavior and is climbing out of the trap onto the green.
champion: yee-haw! (charge at skipijankings and tackle him)
donald: the champion has just tackled long time friend, mr. skipijankings, i’ve never scene any thing like this.
skipijankings: that’s it! i’m getting the f–k out of here! you’re f–ked up dude, you need some help!
champion: ya i need help f–king your wife!
skipijankings: f–k you! (kick the champion very hard!) don’t you ever talk about my wife! i’ll f-king kill you man!
donald: hear hear! generally tempered, long time friend mr. skipijankings now storming off the forced hole, not with out hearing some expletive words hurled at him by the cl-ssless lord of the lace. tears streaming down his face, the champion is now alone on the green left with mainly a 12 foot put. (police sirens are going off) who would of thought that a h-rn honk could bring about such disaster and disarray in one ma’s life. the champion, now lining up his put, using the flag stick as his putter for some odd reason. he takes a few steps towards the hole, unbuckles his belt, the champion is defecating in the cup, and the gallery has scene enough! not a moment too soon the police have arrived, and are advancing towards the champion slowly. in a last desperate act, the champion holds the flag stick as if it were a large lance from medieval times, and runs full kilt in rage in his eyes towards the officers.
officers(begin firing guns)
donald: they open fire. the champion has been shot. he is down on the green, he’s not moving, walking inching their way towards the champion, the officer checks the champion’s pulse, and signals to the other police that the champion is sure enough dead. if you are just joining us sunday may 7’th at 2: 42 p.m. perhaps the greatest golfer of our time is diseased at age 39. my god have mercy on his sole. this has been donald hefington saying good day, and good golf.

- adam sandler lyrics

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