Psst...hey, let me tell you how this went down. My names Bones...and with the help of a well-connected golfer and a hacked SkyCaddie...we brought down the most famous athlete in history.
It was early last year when I got a mysterious call: "Look for the little black box in Phil's bag"...click.
While on the back nine of the Phoenix Open during my bosses bathroom break, I rifled through the bag as thorough as Jermaine going through Michael's will.
I found a SkyCaddie. I turned it on.
It blinked a couple times, and started making a static-y sound. Then all of a sudden a screen popped up and revealed addresses...not of golf courses, but of motels. This apparently was a hacked SkyCaddie that was now a compromised GPS.
I followed the trail, and with the help of my mystery-caller...I cracked the code of these various motel rooms holding preserved lipstick-stained wine glasses, soiled bedsheets, and half-eaten oysters on the half-shell. The final clue was a tiger headcover.
The rest is history, and is being written a re-written daily thanks to some Benjamin's from the National Enquirer. I...being led to discover Golf-Gate...with a quasi GPS and well-timed phone calls, will position my boss as the numero-uno in golf...the man who wears the pants...my man Phil.
But who was the caller?
Was it Phil? The Bear? Elin?
After much soul-searching...and a cut on my future book-deal, I'm revealing my source:
It was Fluff.
Thanks for reading. Keep it in the short-grass,