I need to make this quick, because it’s April Fool’s Day, which means I’ve got shit to do. I need to take care of my elderly neighbor with the yippy shit machine rat dog that craps on my front step every third walkies. I’ve got it all planned out: I’m gonna fill a paper bag with dogshit. Then I’m gonna put it on her front step, set it on fire and ring the doorbell. And when she comes out? I’m gonna blast her with about 30 paintballs. And with any luck, then the bag’ll burn her fucking house down.
However, The Master’s golf tournament’s coming up fast, and what with a busy schedule filled with pleading Not Guity to First Degree Arson and tinkering with the alcohol detector on an ankle bracelet, I wanted to get my thoughts on Tiger Woods’s big golf comeback down while I have a chance. So here we go:
Who gives a shit?
Seriously, Tiger: almost no one cares about your golf game; everyone knows you’re probably the best golfer in the world. No, all anyone wants to see is whether or not you whimper and go fetal the first time someone cocks a nine-iron near your face. The Atlantic City Over/Under on you cracking under the pressure, losing bladder control and sprinting for the nearest SUV is currently the tenth hole of round two, and trust me: the smart money is on the under.
So fuck golfing, all people want to see how you handle the situation… because up until now, you have handled it all wrong. You can trust me, Tiger; after all, I am a man who knows a thing or two about creating a public spectacle.
I know you’re probably rocking back and forth in a dark room right now cursing your penis, and you should. Not for where it led you, but just for having one. After all, if God hadn’t cursed you with a wang (Although after hearing stories about your upbringing, I’m not convinced that your dad didn’t just spend your childhood berating you into growing one) and your spouse tuned you up with a pitch wedge, you’d be a hero to women everywhere no matter who you fucked or gave genital warts to.
But alas: you’ve got the cock the Good Lord dealt you, so just butch up and thank the Man Above that you married a model instead of another golfer. Because a female golfer would probably know that trick where you can bounce a ball off the club head for ten minutes, and your awful half-apologies would only be heard by dogs. Plus, you’d be married to a lesbian, but I digress.
Tiger, you’ve obviously got some high-powered PR firm advising you to keep your fucking mouth shut and play a tournament to try and shift focus from the skanks you’ve sunk it into back to your golf play. Which would a fine strategy except it misses one small, salient point: almost nobody gives a fuck about golf.
For most of us, golf is a boring, sunstroked forced march. It’s Bataan with a greens fee. You hit a ball with a stick, and then you follow it. And then you do it again. And if someone interrupts you while you’re doing it, you throw a tantrum. Golf is nothing but an autism simulator, except after the 18th hole, some irresponsible profiteer gives liquor to the fucking spastics.
And that’s if you’re playing it. For non-golfers, televised golf is VideoDrome without tits: horrible torture that will eventually cause brain damage and suicidal ideation. The only reason they even put it on television is because some people do play golf, which is a game that requires a bunch of specialty shit to play – clubs, bags, carts, shoes, ad nauseum – and there are people willing to pay television networks to advertise that expensive, useless specialty shit to moronic amateur golfers.
If you take a step back, golf is a game where you hit a white ball with a stick, trying to sink something into a hole… which is also a description of pool. But you don’t see networks pissing away Saturdays broadcasting pool tournaments. You know why? There’s nothing to sell you. To play pool you need a stick, some beer, and if you want to emulate the greats of the game, a Body Mass Index around 40.
After that, there’s nothing to buy, hence: no pool on TV. But believe me: the instant someone comes up with polyester disposable billiards codpieces or a beryllium cue with an “enhanced sweet spot for the professional experience” to push to the rubes, you’ll see pool on TV… of course, if you try to bring any of that shit into a pool hall, you’ll be know the “professional experience” of being smacked on the “sweet spot” by a man with a “Body Mass Index around 40”.
So make no mistake, Tiger: golfing is not your job. Selling shit is your job. That’s what you want to protect. And whoever told you to keep your yap shut about this whole fistful of affairs controversy clearly stopped giving you advice that was good for anybody after he said, “Another zero on that check, Tiger”, because they’re obviously not thinking this situation through. But don’t worry, chief; I’m here to help. Let’s brainstorm!
Who watches golf on TV, Tiger? That’s right: middle-aged white guys. And what do middle-aged white guys want to excel at more than golf? That’s also right: banging models and strippers.
Call yourself a press conference, Tiger, and tell people that you’ll answer all comers. And when they ask uncomfortable questions, just tailor your answers. Something like this:
“Damn right I fucked Rachel Uchitel! Jesus, she damn near raped me! Once she felt the thread count on my cotton-poly blend Nike golf jersey, she said she couldn’t keep her hands off me!”
“Jaimee Grubbs? Yup, hit that. Right in the back of my beautiful Buick Rendezvous. You’d think chicks would go for Porsches, but unless she’s the type who likes the parking brake handle where the sun don’t shine, you can’t go wrong with the big back seat of a Buick for illicit, uncontrolled sex with cocktail waitresses.”
“Jamie Jungers and Mindy Lawton? Let me just say: doubletap! They didn’t even know who I was, but when they got a look at my TAG Heuer watch, it was like they were hypnotized! I almost collapsed from exhaustion, but thanks to some tasty and delicious Gatorade Tiger, I kept going for hours and came like a firehose!”
“Regret for cheating on my wife? Sure, whatever… all I know is that after she found out how irresistable the products I endorse were to loose women with large, firm breasts, the crazy bitch came after me with a golf club. She almost caught me, but thank God I was wearing my Nike cross-trainers…”
That’s free advice that not only will lock down your current endorsements, Tiger, but should score you at least one or two new ones… and all I ask for is a percentage on those fat new contracts. Hell, I’ll even write the copy for you:
“I’m Tiger Woods. I’ve slept with dozens of questionable, skeevy skanks. But I’m a tiger, not a leopard. Which means there’s no spots on my dick. Thank you, Trojan!”
I’ll be watching for my check, Tiger. Have it couriered to my home address; I should be here thanks to the ankle bracelet.
[tags]Tiger Woods, endorsements, Masters Tournament, dark humor, satire[/tags]
