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Today we salute you Mr. Driving Range Ball Picker Upper.
For our pure enjoyment,
You bravely throw yourself directly in the path of adversity,
And you do it on a tractor.
Oh, the rules call for friendly fire,
But you know we're all gunning for you.
(gunning for you)
"Let her rip," you say,
Because someone's gonna hit a little dribbler,
And they're gonna try and chase it down.
(run run run run)
And when they do, you'll be there.
(you'll be there)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Range Guy,
Because in this world of mamby pambys,
You're the one with all the balls.
Today we salute you, Mr. Athletic Groin Protector Inventor.
People love to play sports,
But they don't love it when they get hit in the twig and berries.
For years cringing fans watched as man after man went down,
But then you came along and said,
"Here, stick this in your pants."
(Nice to meet you)
The arrant headbutt.
The inside fastball.
The wayward high-five.
All no match for your crash helmet.
(oh bring it onnn)
Sure, some athletes shun them,
But don't worry,
they'll come around.
(show us the way)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light,
Protector of the Package,
And know that we're just nuts about you.
Today we salute you,
Mr. Backyard Bug Zapper Inventor.
Not content to harmlessly repel insects with lotion,
You discovered a way to fry them with electricity until their bodies explode.
Ah the sounds of summer:
The blood-curdling scream of a moth having 700 volts of electricity shooting through its body.
(music to my ears)
Every night a magical explosion of exoskeleton and insect goo that can only mean one thing:
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Mr. June Bug Blaster,
Then sit back, and watch the fireworks.
Today we salute you, Mr. Baseball Designated Hitter.
Baseball is an intricate game of skill, strategy, and athleticism.
Except for you,
You just whomp the ball.
(whomp that ball now)
What's it like to be a professional baseball player who doesn't even need to own a glove?
(you're a staaaar)
Still, we'd rather see you up at the plate than some pitcher with a career batting average of .001.
(couldn't hit a beach ball)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Sir On-The-Bench-A-Lot,
Because fielding, throwing, and running..
Are overrated anyway.
Today we salute you, Mr. Basketball Court Sweat Wiper Upper.
You’ll do anything for courtside seats,
Even if it means mopping another man’s sweat off the floor.
(smelly man sweat)
Superstars may fall,
But superstars don’t wipe up sweat after they fall.
You do that.
While they soak up the glory,
You soak up pretty much everything else.
Their shoes aren’t squeakin’
Til your towel’s a-reekin’.
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh Prince of Perspiration
Cause we know a champion
When we smell one.
Today we salute you Mr. Bass Plaque Maker.
Only a true artist like yourself can turn five pounds of dead fish into a work of art.
(no fishy smell now)
In your capable hands,
We know that our trout will never will never look trashy,
Our croppey never crappy
Thanks to you we can say,
"I caught this bass, what have you ever done?"
(tell me now)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Mr. Bass Plaque Maker.
Because while a trophy wife may grow old and wrinkled,
A trophy bass can now remain forever young.
(forever young forever young)
Today we salute you Mr. Bathroom Stall Dirty Joke Writer.
Armed with your trusty marker
You do the impossible.
Make an incredibly dirty place,
(scribble it down now)
Your jokes make us pee our pants.
Lucky for us,
They're down around our ankles.
You answer our most vexing questions.
What ever happened to that man from Nantucket?
(oh that's a good one)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Oh Ruler of the Rhyme
Cause when we're looking for a good time
We call you.
Today we salute you, Mr. Beach Metal Detector Guy.
Some seek their fortune in the stock market,
Others in real estate,
But you look for loose change in the sand.
(hittin’ the jackpot)
Armed with a five foot Geiger counter and the world’s largest set of ear phones
You live your life with a simple code of honor:
“Finder’s keepers. Loser’s weepers.”
Sure people mock you,
But he who owns 92 cents, a gold plated earring, and a steal-toed boot gets the last laugh
(who’s laughing now)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Oh Sultan of the Sand.
We’d give you a medal,
But you’ve probably already found one.
Today we salute you, Mr. Blue Aluminum Bottle Maker.
Your amazing creation allows us to keep our beer, our hands, and our arctic ice shelf completely cold
(it’s really really cold)
The only problem we have taking a drink?
Removing our lips from the bottle
After taking a drink.
(my lips are stuuuck)
Sure we need a beer this cold,
Should we ever find ourselves running wind sprints at the bottom of an active volcano.
(I’m on fiiire)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh Frietter of the Frigid.
Now can someone please pry this bottle from my frozen hand.
Today we salute you, Mr. After Halloween Costume Shop Salesman.
For two weeks every October,
You're the most popular man in town.
The rest of the year?
The loneliest man in town.
(I could use a buddy)
You've had the same costume since 1973,
Which is also the last time you had them washed.
(somethin' smells like cabbage)
What's your scariest costume?
The ballerina outfit,
Just returned by the 400 pound truck driver
(super duper tutu)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh King of the Costume.
Because dealing with you,
Will always be our treat.
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