Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

A brief note on our fallen national hero, Mr. Tiger Woods. Really just a question.

Mr. Woods is, without a doubt, prior to his coitus interuptus, the most famous sports figure in this country and arguably throughout the anglosphere where the great golf courses are carved. He is - was - loved and revered and adored and admired and worshipped for his almost mystical skills with a club and little white ball. Young, serious, precise, technical and monomaniacal in his pursuit of the game, he was expected to dominate the sport for the next 25 years. A true post-racial representative of the new America.

That is all in the shitter now. His career lies on the floor of a Vegas hotel room like a day old yellowing cum-filled scumbag.

Today's compounding news: his antics have sent his mother-in-law to the emergency room. A new low.

So the question is this:

Where the fuck were all of Tiger's friends, agents, and lackies while he was out and about banging and whoring it up with 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, or, as Drudge has helpfully detailed, today's 11 kinky little kittens? Are we to believe that not one person in Tiger's circle of confidence told him that he was seriously jeopardizing the Gatorade, General Motors, Titleist, American Express, Nike, Frosted Flakes, TAG Heuer, Electronic Arts, and Gillette endorsement lottery? Did he have no one i s his life to tell him he was dishonoring his wife and children and soiling his soul? On what fucking planet are Tiger's confidantes and lackies and closest bestest bros living that none of them told him to pick one girl, just one, buy her nice stuff to keep her quiet and bang her out on the QT somewhere in the Caribbean? Eleven skanks? Eleven? Was Tiger just too convincing? Did the conversation go something like this:

Tiger's Ass Licking Buddy: Um, Tiger, I mean Mr. Woods, dude, you may want to chill it with the ho's dude. I can't like keep track of all the names and cities and word might get back to the Mrs., you know what I mean?

Tiger: Well, here's how I see it. You see, most blokes will be playing at 10. You’re on 10, all the way up, all the way up...Where can you go from there? Nowhere. What I do, is if I need that extra push over the cliff...Eleven. One louder, if you know what I mean.

This is the critical question we must all ask ourselves: who's got our backs? Who is keeping an eye on us and who do we have in our lives who we can trust to say, "Dude, you cannot go to eleven. Nuh, uh. Sorry. Dial it back before you lose it all."

Before this year is over, we should all have a scold in our pocket, in our rolodex, or on speed dial.