What were Tiger Woods and his wife doing at 2:30 in the morning? They went out clubbing.
What should Tiger change his first name to? Cheetah.
Thank you and good night. Remember to tip your waitress and try the veal.
By now you’ve probably heard all the jokes and about the bizarre single-car accident involving a fire hydrant, a tree and superstar golfer Tiger Woods. And how his wife, Elin, may have actually caused the whole melee by trying put a few new divots in Tiger’s forehead with a 3-iron. But on the off chance you no idea what I’m talking about, congratulations, and let me be the first to welcome you back from Turkish prison/outer space/that coma!
Ever since then, Team Tiger has been in full damage control and the world’s most visible athlete is suddenly nowhere to be found outside of an Xbox, even canceling an appearance at his own golf tournament last week in Thousand Oaks.
Tiger did post an open letter on his website, www.tigerwoods.com, regretting his unspecified “transgressions” and asking the rest of us to essentially bury our heads in a sand trap and respect his privacy. Writes Tiger, “Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn’t have to mean public confessions.”
Thanks for that little teachable moment, Tiger, but a guy who just finished allegedly putting a hole in one in every hostess at a Wing Stop, Chili’s and T.G.I. Friday’s between here and Orlando probably shouldn’t be handing out life lessons.
And as a matter fact, I think you do owe us a public confession, or at least an explanation. See, a normal person retains the right to some marital privacy. But you, Tiger? You already whored out your privacy when you became the world’s biggest shill, a billion-dollar-a-year industry from shoes to sports drinks to watches. Every time I open a magazine or turn on the TV or even pop in a video game you’re trying to sell me a Buick, a polo shirt or a freaking razor for Gillette’s sake. And just because the greens aren’t breaking your way, you don’t suddenly get to pick up your golf ball and go home.
So how about it, Tiger? Why don’t I tee up a few questions? You can grab a driver and let ’er rip.
Why, for instance, is the world’s richest, most recognizable athlete hitting on hostesses and cocktail waitresses in the first place? Tiger, what did you think was going to happen after you allegedly slept with these women? These are not the kinds of quality individuals socking money away in a 401(k) or filling out applications for medical school. Of course they were going blab to the highest tabloid bidder. A salacious voicemail from Tiger freaking Woods telling you to change your greeting so his wife doesn’t find out is like winning the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right. I’m just surprised you didn’t have to pay your skeezers to keep quiet using oversized novelty golf checks.
Tiger, you also wrote on your website that your wife, Elin, acted “courageously” during your single-car accident and that any other assertion is false. Oh and according to your version, Elin used a golf club to smash a car window to drag your unconscious body out of the car to safety. Really? Is that the story we’re going with, because I think I’m more likely to buy one of those boat-sized Grandpa-style Buicks.
See because if I saw someone trapped inside a car I owned — in front of my house no less — instead of grabbing a golf club to smash out the window, I might just go inside to retrieve, ooh I don’t know, a backup set of keys. Studies have shown that car doors open faster with keys than with golf clubs, though maybe not as satisfyingly when you’re an angry jilted Swede. Oh, and the window Elin broke to “rescue” you was in the back seat on the opposite side of the car from the steering wheel.
But that’s OK, I rarely hit what I’m aiming at with a golf club either.
Contact Jeff Girod at firstname.lastname@example.org.