Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m feeling a little over-saturated with Tiger Woods news.

But am I above capitalizing on this topic? Oh hell no. Like Michael Jackson’s death and Kanye West’s VMA debacle, I’m going to be right up here pontificating with the rest of the world. I mean c’mon ... where else but America would a guy get busted for adultery, and mistresses -in numbers likely to exceed the double-digits- come out of the woodwork acting sanctimonious?

Think about it: given the sheer number of Tiger's apparent, eh, “dalliances,” is it even remotely possible that not a single one of them knew that Tiger -one of the most highly-sought media figures in the past ten years- was married? None of their friends? Colleagues? Unwilling to openly solicit exclusive deals with the media yet, to a (wo)man they all look into the camera and say, “Why am I coming forward? I just wanted Tiger’s wife to know her husband is a whore.”

Hah! That’s freakin’ awesome.

Look, the truth is Tiger’s wife, Elin Nordegren shoulda known what the sport of golf is really like in the first place. Hasn’t she seen Caddyshack? The fact that this is a shock to anyone at all alarms me. Before I was married, even I almost slept with Tiger: he was always comin’ around the Predator Press HQ swishin around in a sundress, hooker pumps and fishnet stockings, tryin to chip away a little piece of your truly. Honest to god he almost fooled me, too: I would probably be in therapy right now if I hadn’t noticed his purse didn’t match his shoes, his lipstick seemed garishly over-pronounced for his skin tone, and his base/blush scheme was horribly wrong for his facial features and extremely non-flattering to his cheekbones.

“Aren’t you Tiger Woods?” I says.

“No. I’m Arnold Palmer,” he lied.

“Arnold Palmer is white,” I reply, proud to have expended virtually everything I know about golf in the conversation already. “He’s, like, Donny Osmond white.”

“So what are you saying?” says Tiger, indignant. “You would sleep with Arnold Palmer but you wouldn’t sleep with me? What is it? Because I’m black?”

“No, it's because I'm as hetero as it gets," I point out. "You could sharpen a pencil in my keyster.”

Tiger peers around cautiously, to see if anyone is listening. Leaning in he says quietly, “C’mon man. You can’t be serious. Let’s say you weren’t straight. You mean to tell me you would sleep with Arnold Palmer before you got you some of this?”

“Meh,” I says thoughtfully. “I would like to think Arnold Palmer would know better than to wear sundress and fishnet stockings.”

Tiger shrugs. Extracting a compact out of his handbag, he flips it open, checking his lipstick. “I think you’re just a racist,” he says, with finality.

“Look,” I says. “I’m not sleeping with you to prove I’m not a racist. But that is a cool trick. Does that work on women?”

"Having trouble with the ladies?"

"My last girlfriend died a few hours after our date."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah," I agree. "One minute me and Gertrude are watching the Blue Man Group, and a few hours later, pow."

"What happened?"

"The doctor said she poured QuickCrete into her vagina."

“You gotta be romantic with women," offers Tiger. "You gotta make a woman think she is the most important, beautiful, fantastic creature that has ever graced your presence.”

“I gotta lie?"

“Like a rug on Ambien.”