It’s Christmas, Hanukkah and my birthday come early.
Everyone has his or her (I knew our feminist exec editor would add that second pronoun, so I thought I’d save her the trouble) fantasy. Mine has almost always consisted of some amalgamation of Michael Jackson videos, horse racing, golf with my father and witnessing any Tiger Woods defeat. And although during Thanksgiving I lost more than $200 at the race track, didn’t have the chance to play golf with my dad and ate it on the dance floor mid-spin move, I can assure you Tiger lost. And he didn’t even pull out a golf club.
No, this time the club wielder was his unbelievably gorgeous wife Elin. I mean, this women stops traffic and is the sole inspiration for the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up.” Apparently the egomaniacal Tiger wanted more from an already perfect life. So he decided to have an affair with some bimbo, and he got caught.
Three hilarious things ensured. First, El Tigre called the girl and asked for her to remove his name from her phone book. Now, where the hell is the logic there? If Elin already has her number, what does Elin care if the mistress has Tiger’s? Tiger must think if she doesn’t have his number they never had a three-year-long wild and passionate affair. Wouldn’t that be convenient. Even Bill Clinton thinks that’s a bad one.
Second, he was chased from his house by an enraged Elin with a golf club; she put a beat down on Tiger worse than the 2000’s put the beat down on David Duval’s career. His Escalade was destroyed, and the media melee began.
Third, he declined to play in his own tournament that benefits charity because a doctor told him not to. Are you serious, Tiger? You won the U.S. Open on one freaking leg. Your ACL was more broken then than your integrity is now. Your pain threshold is high. Apparently, your maturity level is low.
I don’t know if I agree with all the negative media coverage. It is not our business, and if they cover the bad, then they should cover all the good you do as well. Like when you donate millions to charity. But in the end, these stories sell. And I have a bone to pick with you, my man. Like not signing my autograph at East Lake. Revenge is sweet, Tiger. Revenge is sweet.