What a sad, sad story. Tragic, really.
And how is that, exactly? Another self-absorbed uber-athlete gets caught with his Looms hung up on a bum knee and we’re supposed to respect his personal space. Screw you, Tiger. You and your bogus trophy life up your enTitleisted fairway.
I’ll respect the private life of you and your fellow hucksterjocks (can we make this a real word real soon?) the day you respect mine. Not that I give a whit for guys who whack away at dimpled balls the size of their cranial cavities, but I pay good money to my cable company to be entertained.
My cable company, Keemosabe. Remember when Cable was the paying alternative to commercials? The surrogate to broadcast television, where we’d forget what we’d been watching after being force-fed a raft of ads pushing diuretics, depilatories and diaper alternatives?
Somehow very early on in the game cable networks went, “Hey! Let’s charge the stupid SOB's for shitty programming AND run commercials too! They’ll never know the difference.” And they went and did it right in front of our noses, and when their ilk became so numerous as to confuse us as to what the hell we were watching, they started running their logos on the bottom of our screen. Then they started running commercials for competing networks because other networks were willing to pay them to do it. Jesus, why not run ads telling us we should turn the channel right now because they suck at what they do? But I digress.
The point is Tiger Woods can buss my backside. And the reason I encourage Mr. Woods to have at it is because he has willfully abrogated his right to a private life. He traded it in for cash money. He bartered his toothy smile for cootchie action.
The most prolific athlete ever, after maybe Kobe Bryant or Pete Rose, invades my private life like an unsolicited witness for Jehovah, hawking his own concocted form of paradise. Know what, Mr. Wonderful? I don’t care what fragrance you you smear on your armpits, what bank you’ve broken to put the current time on your wrist, what hydrant-stalking SUV you park in your garage, what paper product you wipe your ass with. I don’t wish to be harassed by your personal choice in fast-food restaurants any more than you wish to be signing an autograph for my Aunt Edna on the fourteenth fairway.
You think you deserve a private life? Then forgo ninety percent of your income and go back to swatting golf balls for the sorry souls who get off on the sport of couch-masturbation. How about this: forego all of it and stick to tournaments passed over by television subsidization. Then tell me how attractive anonymity feels. All the way to the bank, asshole.
The second you sheath your magic driver and don a sandwich board for any of the products Madison Avenue heaps money on you to hype, you’ve invaded my private space. Pull a stunt with a party chick on the sly while the Euro-hubstress is at home polishing the family crystal is the same as porking a hooker on my porch, Zoro. That’s entertainment. Shit, it’s the best kind of reality television, because it’s actually real. So consider yourself busted on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
This is more fun than I’ve ever had watching golf. And while I admire the specific talent a handful of guys have honed tracking one of your approach shots to the green, I so much more get a kick out of the yellow journalists who are having a field day with your “private life." Because that’s part of the deal whether you like it or not. And you deserve the shit that’s happening to you right now, because you figured the fine print the rest of us subscribe to, in your case simply doesn’t apply.
