Mourning Woods

There have been great liars throughout the course of history.  O.J. and his whole “I’m not guilty” shit.  Nixon claiming he wasn’t a crook, even though he and/or his underlings tried to cover up a burglary.  Arlen Spector for coming up with the Magic Bullet Theory.  Napoleon for denying he had the worst case of short man syndrome since Yoda went after Darth Maul.  The list goes on and on.  But on February 19, 2010, they were all out lied and out phonied by none other than the currently sabbatical’d pro golfer and liar, Tiger “The Teeth” Woods.  Seriously, have you ever seen a larger pair of perfectly white teeth since the last time you saw the rerun where Wilbur took Mr. Ed to the dentist?

In case you’ve been in a coma, Tiger’s life of perfection starting becoming less than perfect while Giving Thanks way back when in November of Ought Nine.  Ole TW jumped in his Escalade, tore out from the money hut, and drilled a fire hydrant a mere 12 foot putt away.  Witnesses who eyed the aftermath claimed the windows of his rig were all blowed out, he was Nikeless, and asleep on the sidewalk – neighborhood equivalent to a cart path.  His Norwegian sperm receptacle and seed incubator was also holding one of his clubs like she had just attempted to tee off on his number one wood.  TW then rich and famously disappeared, unlike the gang of text massages he apparently thumbed to his harem of hoe’s every time he quit Mastersbatin. 

Prior to whoring himself out to the media to apologize for whoring it up like Wilt Chamberlain on a Viagra bender, he did what everyone who wants to confess their sins does - hand pick an audience.  Like an uncircumcised Catholic confessing to a priest through the holy chicken wire that he uses twisty ties for birth control, you’re not really sayin’ what you’re claimin to say unless you say it to anyone who wants to here you say it.  The group of people watching were described by another legitimate journalist who did not cuss throughout the whole article as a bunch of somber looking honkeys in blue blazers.  TW chose to confess about porkin’ a bunch of chicks to a bunch of crackers wearing blue blazers – a press core of his peers no doubt.  He came out onto a makeshift stage-like structure in front of the obligatory “I’m fucking serious about this shit” blue curtains.  You know a son of a bitch is serious about remorse’s code when he employs a stage and podium while doing so.  TW must have consulted Slick Willy, John Edwards and that dick danglin’ governor of South Carolina about the hoes and cons of being full of remorse while using props and a back drop.  Whereas he may have taken some pointers from them on the aesthetics of apologizing for fucking around on your wife - to a whole bunch of people who you did not taste test around, and were mysteriously not your wife - he apparently forgot to take notes on how to say what.

Amazingly, he went full prepared statement.  Nothing was unscripted, and nothing straight from the gizzard.  He looked like Gepetto may have had his hand up his ass.  It appeared as though his movements were even scripted.  He would look around the room while speaking one or two sentences before he had to get back on script.  TW looked like he was scanning the crowd for some wool.  The look on his face made me think he had missed a dose of Metamucil during his preparation, because this whole affair was not regular.  It was a bunch of shit.

“Good morning and thank you for joining me.”  This is how he opened up his opening up speech to the group of journalists he hand picked.  You’re thanking people to come listen to you repent for repeatedly puttin your club in a bunch of different golf bags.  Why in the hell are you thanking the people you asked to come sit in the front row of your “I swear I’ll never get random pussy again” speech?  Why not just act like a fucking rockstar and open up with a microphone yelling “Ponte Vedra are you ready for me to talk about my cock?  You wanna talk about my cock?  Let’s cock talk!”  Like a guitarist with picks, he could have thrown out condoms.  They could have sold customized golf shirts, hats, doo rags and golf towels that said “Tiger Woods Doesn’t Cheat…Anymore.”  The back could have had “Tiger Woods Cock Talk Tour 2010. 2/19/10 Ponte Vedra Florida.”

He said he was aware of the “pain” his actions had caused to some of the fools in the room.  Unless he had tied up and butt fucked some of them, how did he cause them any pain?  His actions got these fool’s bosses to pay for them to go to a resort golf course in Florida.  An all expense paid trip to Florida would only be painful if you were the resident lounge singer in a retirement community during the winter months.

“To everyone involved in my foundation, including my staff, board of directors, sponsors, and most importantly, the young students we reach, our work is more important than ever.”  TW, obviously your foundation was weaker than the leaning Tower of Pizza.  Your staff is what got you into all of this bonerfied public persona meltdown.  You were too bored with porkin’ your hot wife from Meatballville, so you started porkin all kinds of others chicks, directed them to keep quiet, and sponsored them with the cash to do so.  Hopefully you didn’t reach any of your students to do any work, because obviously you’ve been “workin” off all your “no-childhood-cause-my-daddy-wasn’t-good-enough-to-be-good-at-a-sport-himself” by sewin’ more oats than Betsy Ross makin fiber for breakfast.

“I once heard — and I believe it is true — it’s not what you achieve in life that matters, it is what you overcome.”  No fucking shit.  You believe that is true now you motherfucker, cause you’ve come all over everything within a 5 foot putt your whole professional life, and now you’re caught red-handed (if he’d truly been red-handed, TW would only be worried about hairy palms and going blind).  Instead, you’re looking at a scenario where Mrs. Meatball is takin’ all your green jackets.  It’s like he plagiarized the fortune out of the last cookie he read at Dong King’s in the Bronx (For the record Dong King’s exists.  My father and I saw it during our one and only visit to Old Yankee Stadium.  If I can find a picture, I will share.)

“As I proceed, I understand people have questions. I understand the press wants to ask me for the details of the times I was unfaithful. I understand people want to know whether Elin and I will remain together. Please know that as far as I’m concerned, every one of these questions and answers is a matter between Elin and me. These are issues between a husband and a wife.”  TW said this at a goddamn press conference HE SET UP.  He passed the fuck by acting like the Associated Press is going to ask him his favorite position, whether he likes or dislikes ball gags, or his preferred strain of lube.  The only “press” who would want to get into those type of details would be wearing lingerie, a suit of rubber, or jerking off in a sock with their non-raised hand.

“Part of following this path for me is Buddhism, which my mother taught me at a young age. People probably don’t realize it, but I was raised a Buddhist, and I actively practiced my faith from childhood until I drifted away from it in recent years. Buddhism teaches that a craving for things outside ourselves causes an unhappy and pointless search for security. It teaches me to stop following every impulse and to learn restraint. Obviously, I lost track of what I was taught.”  When the hell is “actively practiced my faith from childhood until I drifted away from it in recent years?”  If he actively practiced his faith, wouldn’t there have been some Nike commercials with him running up stairs on a big temple or some shit?  If this were true, he would have been on the cover of Buddhist Weekly or Fat Heavenly Belly more than Sports Illustrated.  Barak Hussein Obama ran for president and every Conservative conspiracy theory nut came out of the molding.  These nuts claimed he wasn’t really born in Ha-Why-Ya (That’s the state, not that song by Outkast), and his birth receipt was phony.  If TW was a Buddhist, the Taliban would have claimed him as their own because most Americans are too fucking stupid to know the difference between a holy fat Chinaman, and any Muhammad not associated with Ali.

There you have it for now.  I’m truly sorry for ending this.  I know I haven’t let any of you down because all of this is completely pointless.  Many of you want to ask me questions about why I continue to write this crazy shit.  Since I actively put my nuttiness out there, those questions are very valid.  However, until I hand pick a bunch of friendly motherfuckers to ask those questions, I’m not going to answer any questions.  If you question my answer to the question about answering questions, I’ll have you know I grew up watching Jeopardy! and still have a touch of dyslexia.  So it has always been my belief that answers must be in the form of a question.  Thank you (Tear, sniffle, cough, ball scratch, orchestrated look at the crowd).