Wood You Get Rid of Him?
As has been previously mentioned, Tiger Woods porked his way straight out of Perfectdom. Prior to the revelation he was using his wood more off the course than on, he was the golden boy of corporate facial representation. He was the first non-pimp related brotha to flog Buicks. He slung Tag Heuer wrist sundials, and no one questioned his lack of ties to the actual company - or the odds of a motherfucker that rich actually wearing anything other than a Rolex. Everyone just bought into the idea he was really partial to a timepiece that seems to suggest smackin’ hoes is not only accepted, but classy. AT&T – which allows their customers to access sex lines such as 1-900-Big-Tits and 1-900-Big-Sack – ran away from Tiger faster and more successfully than the clumsy, wounded elk who never gets away from the lion or gator on Mutual of Omaha’s Weekly Animal Rodeo, or whatever the hell it was. Gatorade ran from him on Friday by saying they saw no future role for him. Yeah, until it was learned that he was fuckin’ up more than fucked up, Gator Squeezins was perfectly fine with his perfectdom, and apparent inability to do anything immoral or lacking in electrolytes. Proctor & Gamble ran off as soon as they could, because we all know Tiger was the first son of a bitch ever associated with pharmaceuticals that was whorin’ about. I would like to think those motherfuckers that let Phen Fen run rampant on the fat community back in ‘90’s were getting the tongues of prescribing doctor’s depressed with their own woods, instead of those goddamn ice cream spoons doctors seem to have an endless supply of. Hell, when congealed cow juice gets broken out up in this trailer, a shard of Noah’s Ark is produced forth for eatin’ purposes quicker than Job finding a paper to roll a doobie.
What the fuck does Tiger Woods’ fuckin’ around have to do with his ability to flog products to the masses after receiving what I’m sure is a penance of endorsement compensation? Look, the guy did something totally fucking evil by fucking around on his wife more often than a big dick Mormon at a Tabernacle Choir Reunion and Wifefest. That doesn’t mean he’s floggin’ bad shit, or should recoil from putting forth your own ducketts to engage in consumerism encouraged by a famous motherfucker you have never met, nor ever will. If you’re dumb enough to buy something just because Tiger flogged it, the fact he was Masterin’ around with two hoes in each state like Noah filming porn on the Ark isn’t gonna stop you from buying it. The average fucking golfer or American had no clue what a Bitch Slap watch was. Tiger came onto the scene and said “Hey, I think Tag Heuer is great and you should buy one of these motherfuckers fo sho.” People flocked to them and bought them because the best goddamn golfer on the planet said they were cool. Just because he was using the chronograph to time how long he had to bust a nut before he had to report back to his own personal “driving strange”, doesn’t mean their aren’t a bunch of motherfuckers across the planet who want to time the 25 seconds it took them to blow a wad - with the girlfriend they always imagined as a very pale, beautiful chick from the land of Meatballs.
If the reports are correct, and Proctor & Gamble made condoms, Tiger probably caused their stock to rise like his cock during his sexual Escalades. However, trying to be all honest and moral like, they let loose of Tiger’s sponsorship tail like an over-lubed weenie in the hands of chick with carpal tunnel. These corporate bastards make Christina Aguilera perfumes, and yet they are jumpin ship on Tiger for fuckin’ some chicks. You support a white, over singing, dread lock having, sandwich-needing bitch, but when Mr. All American does what most rich and famous Americans do, they go runnin for the hills like a Chilean Tsunami is coming. Have some corporate sack and simply say, “His personal life has nothing to do with the success of his advertising campaign – just look at how successful Christina Aguliera’s Stank Sweat was.”
Gatorade dropping him is so fucking ridiculous, it makes me dry mouthed, have Charlie’ horses and think my coach is going to make me do “gassers” until I croak. Gatorade is a fucking sports drink. Athletes like sex. Sex – next to being cool – is one of the main driving forces behind being a successful athlete. When you get all hot and bothered practicin’ your athletic wares, you often need to replace whatever the hell it is that you loose when you sweat like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I have no goddamn idea what is in Gatorade, but I’m quite fucking sure it ain’t Holy Water. If I’m not mistaken – and even if I am, I’m going to act as if it were true – they had specific flavors flogged under Teeth’s name. I have no clue what they really were, but they should have been called, “Sacktastic”, “Cum to the Jungle” and/or “12 Inch Wood.” How are you going to take off running from a dude that was the face of your advertising campaign just because he apparently gave facials to more women than pHisoderm?
I ain’t condolencin’ his actions. It offends my morals, and it takes a lot of offendin’ before they get all bustled up into a bunch. HOWEVER, I think it is more pussy than Tiger ever got to run away from him, just because he acted like the 18 year-old he never got to be. His wife should take everything she can get from him, write a tell all book that tells nothing (because she apparently knew less than a comatose relative of a contestant at a spelling bee), and then start fucking some other celebrity. She could even classily release a sex tape to prove she was sexually adept at fornicatin’, and that Tiger’s need to sew his seed had nothing to do with her put-out-ability.
If you were in bed with Tiger financially before all the whores he was in bed with came out the fucking wood work, you should have enough financial and corporate sack to stick by the caublasian motherfucker who previously brought you multitudes of Euros. You may despise his inability to keep his penis in his groin golf bag, but that don’t make all the dineros he brought you in the past - or the bullion he will still mostly like procure for you in the future - less spendable or reportable to your stock holders. Sure, you look all moral and shit by being on the list of companies that ran from Tiger when the cum hit the fan, but what does that really say about you? In its most simplest terms, Tiger fucked around on his wife. Repeatedly. It is her choice to keep his tired ass around or not. It’s her choice to take a cash payout for “the children” and stay together with him. Whether you think she made the right call or dialed the wrong number, who gives a fuck? The answer is only hers to pencil in on the Scantron form of life – I’m sure she got herself a sharp fucking No. 2 when she first got wind of all this anyway. Running from Tiger just because he’s been fuckin’ a whole bunch of whores is tired ass. Even though you are a corporation, Tiger was your friend. You paid him a lot of doubloons to represent your company, and he did so rather handily or you would not have kept your wallet open. He then hits a personal speed bump the size of a paved, roided out mole hill, so you forget everything he has done for you and run away like a fucking rabbit flew out of cave and killed your friends.
When you entangle your alliances with people for financial gain, you’ve got to stand by them, and they’ve got to stand by you until it becomes unprofitable. I haven’t heard one person say they won’t wear Aguliera’s Slut Sauce, buy a watch, replace their electrolytes, or use Q-tips because Tiger Woods was cheatin’ on his wife. That don’t have a fucking thing to do with it. Your product was already out there and doing fine, or you wouldn’t have had enough money to pay for his teeth cleanings to begin with. You subsidized his pressure washings and millings while he flogged your product like Jesus did Birkenstocks. Then, when all the public relations went bad for Mr. Woods, you acted like you had only been “friends” before, and saw no reason to continue talking in the near financial future. You bunch of fucking pussies. You could compensate this by having longer minute plans, extra large Q-Tips, a watch that predicts the exact moment of orgasm and a drink that both makes you a better athlete and lover. Basically what it boils down to is companies have no fucking nuts. In the words of Jake and Elwood Blues at that hick bar they performed at – I wish I could type the dance routine – stand by your man.
