Chapter MMMCCLXXX: Tiger Woods, y'all
Chapter MMMCCLXXX: Tiger Woods, y'all
A Brief Statement on Tiger Woods:
I don't care about Tiger Woods. Much. Not much more than it takes to write a short post about it.
First, I don't play golf. If you do, more power to you. I get frustrated trying to change the batteries in my Tivo Remote. I'd imagine spoiling a walk chasing a ball carrying a bag full of potential murder weapons wouldn't be conducive to a day wellspent.
The sex thing? I dunno. Maybe I'm different. For one, I don't tend to look to athletes or television stars or Ted Nugent at all to raise my children or provide me with a moral compass. And for two? Long ago, I came to the realization that grown ups have sex, and really, the only sex life that should really concern me is my own (and my partner's, by extension). I don't care how many women Tiger Woods has in however many ports of call. I'd always assumed that, yeah, he probably did have women at every town the PGA stopped in. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing, or even if it's a thing at all: I'd be more surprised if he didn't have beautiful women in every town.
Well, maybe I'd be surprised if the women were all 400 pound linewomen in that semi-pro football league that started a couple years back. That might be surprising.
Or if the women were corpses. That might be really bothersome. But at least then, I'd turn up the radio instead of turning the channel. If it came out that they caught Tiger Woods out in the graveyard digging up bodies and dipping his wick? Yeah, I'd be all over that mess. More for the grotesque humor than the thrill of necrophilia. But then, there are days that my idea of funny is probably something best kept to myself, lest I want to spend a weekend or two at the nut hut.
Or if the women were actually bears. I do enjoy that scene in Super Troopers. And that would be surprising.
Or Tigers. For some reason, the idea of young master Woods dying in the Tiger cage with his pants down is amusing to me.
But, again, that's one of those thoughts that probably kept me out of the really good schools.
At the end of the day, and at the end of this post, I've used up all my concern for this Tiger Woods mess and his previously burgeoning sex life. I will now return to worrying about my own.
And worrying is probably the most perfect word for it, too....
A Brief Statement on Tiger Woods:
I don't care about Tiger Woods. Much. Not much more than it takes to write a short post about it.
First, I don't play golf. If you do, more power to you. I get frustrated trying to change the batteries in my Tivo Remote. I'd imagine spoiling a walk chasing a ball carrying a bag full of potential murder weapons wouldn't be conducive to a day wellspent.
The sex thing? I dunno. Maybe I'm different. For one, I don't tend to look to athletes or television stars or Ted Nugent at all to raise my children or provide me with a moral compass. And for two? Long ago, I came to the realization that grown ups have sex, and really, the only sex life that should really concern me is my own (and my partner's, by extension). I don't care how many women Tiger Woods has in however many ports of call. I'd always assumed that, yeah, he probably did have women at every town the PGA stopped in. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing, or even if it's a thing at all: I'd be more surprised if he didn't have beautiful women in every town.
Well, maybe I'd be surprised if the women were all 400 pound linewomen in that semi-pro football league that started a couple years back. That might be surprising.
Or if the women were corpses. That might be really bothersome. But at least then, I'd turn up the radio instead of turning the channel. If it came out that they caught Tiger Woods out in the graveyard digging up bodies and dipping his wick? Yeah, I'd be all over that mess. More for the grotesque humor than the thrill of necrophilia. But then, there are days that my idea of funny is probably something best kept to myself, lest I want to spend a weekend or two at the nut hut.
Or if the women were actually bears. I do enjoy that scene in Super Troopers. And that would be surprising.
Or Tigers. For some reason, the idea of young master Woods dying in the Tiger cage with his pants down is amusing to me.
But, again, that's one of those thoughts that probably kept me out of the really good schools.
At the end of the day, and at the end of this post, I've used up all my concern for this Tiger Woods mess and his previously burgeoning sex life. I will now return to worrying about my own.
And worrying is probably the most perfect word for it, too....
posted by Tommy at
21:07
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