Some ginger is the next Tiger (Also, I love E! News)

Oscar Gamble fan Rory McIlroy

My father and I have long debated the merits of Rory McIlroy, the pasty Irish lad so prone to go low early only to predictably fizzle when the pressure’s on.

May I suggest the blue pill?

Nah, but all dirtiness aside, McIlroy is always good for a crooked number or three come Sunday at a Major – his was the final-round 80 at Augusta in April, which is perfectly acceptable for a pimply mugged, relative newbie taking on ’01 Tiger… not so much when facing the vaunted likes of Jason Day, Jason Day’s wife, and some other rando.

This is the point of contention. We – my father and I – both agree that Rory swings an all-world stick, looks like Bobby Jones in a Sideshow Bob wig, and possesses the talent, in theory, to win approximately 38 major championships.

But I say he’s a LeBron choker. And so far, the 22-year-young has done nothing to prove me wrong, unless you count that 4-jack victory over Fat Phil at Quail Hollow last year.

Just sayin, win me a major.

“I thought it’s been 5 hours already. It’s only been 5 minutes,” screams out some random voice in the office, referring either to this never-ending Friday or, more likely, my pops’ defense of McIlroy. Translation: the kid’s young, give it time.

Fine. I’ll give him this weekend, one he’s – as of 2:23 – entering with an 8 shot lead over a slew of nobodies and, if he’s any fun, about three pints of Guinness to drown away that double on 18. Mac’s already touched the lowest US Open score ever (-13) and if he’s, in the words of Dennis Green, “WHO WE THOUGHT HE WERE,” this gracious loser from Holywood (that’s right) will shut me up for good, probably in route to dropping the final tombstone bouquet on Tiger’s career.

Also, E! is captivating the nation. And by the nation, I mean THIS GUY.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Seacrestian, maybe. But not gay. In fact, I’ve taken to watching E! News mainly for the women – Kim, Kourtney, Beyonce, the chick that dumped Hugh, the one who’s whipping Leo, Pink and her lil whittle baby, pics of a maybe-fat-but-maybe-just-bad-angle Jessica Simpson in hot pants. Say what you will. Gossip amongst yourselves. But I’m 305 now, and the only way to up my fab is to lift fashion tips from whichever skinnier-than-she-is nob courting Christina.

No sound. No Seacrest blabbing. Just me, myself, the treadmill, the other 7 a.m. gym rats, Yeezy on the phones, and a Manolo Blahnik-clad celeb-TV it-girl rockin the flatscreen. Just spare me Guiliana Rancic. And tie her to a pebble before she floats away. In conclusion, eat a McNugget. Happy Friday.