Mind Of Man: What The Tiger Woods Sex Scandal Is Really About

So, Tiger Woods cheated on his wife. For those of you who don’t know, Tiger Woods is a professional golfer worth a billion dollars. He is involved in a sex scandal, much like your average politician, rock star, or preacher. I have no opinion on the topic. Except that Tiger Woods has the fashion sense of a middle-aged suburban father who screams into his clenched fist every time he surveys the smoldering ruins of dreams that dot the empty horizon of his soul. Which might be the standard plight of golfers, as the sport is just an expensive version of lawn darts for plumpers with platinum cards.

Wait. That’s an opinion. I hate golf. I blame golf for giving us Tiger Woods in the first place.

For many, I’m sure Gatorade suddenly tastes like broken families. Nike’s famous slogan “Just Do It” must sound like a hobgoblin’s dark command to cheat.

Everything I know about this scandal has come from the cover of US Weekly, which feels and reads like a comic book. The only difference being that in a comic book, I generally know who the good guys are. I bought this celebrity picture book for medicinal purposes: My girlfriend had succumbed to the plague, and I was on a humanitarian mission to procure chicken soup ingredients, hallucination-inducing cough syrups and various, overpriced homeopathic pills that smell suspiciously like gerbil food. The cover of US Weekly gave me the essential details I needed to know: Yes, he cheated. There were hotel hook-ups, dirty texts, and one of his various mistresses of three years told all. Plus, he panicked when his wife found out.

And he and his wife look so happy on the cover. What cruel irony.

I wrote “various” because the very nice man with the very sinister mustache who sold me the magazine added a breathless, breaking update to my purchase. Tiger had dozens of women on the side. Dozens? Dozens. So this is what I know, and I am passing it on to those of you who know as much about this scandal as I do. It has me shook up, pretty badly. This is one of those mass shocks to the system that binds us all together; a moment in time we will all share and remember. Do you remember where Peggy was when JFK got shot on “Mad Men”? It’s like that.

We have all lost our innocence. Again. For the third or fourth time. Why, oh Zeus, are all our heroes so damned horny?

For many, I’m sure Gatorade suddenly tastes like broken families. Nike’s famous slogan “Just Do It” must sound like a hobgoblin’s dark command to cheat.

If I were the owner of an impressionable love critter, I might sit him or her on my knee and calmly explain that Tiger Woods is, in fact, a computer-generated image, like the dinosaurs in “Jurassic Park,” a movie I will show them because I think history is important. Real people don’t make the people they love cry, or at the very least, real people don’t leave incriminating voicemails. I will follow up when they’re pre-teens.

No doubt there are riots of opinion about this sordid affair in the cold, brutal land of Blogistan. There are always riots of opinion when it comes to notable penises or vaginas.

Perhaps I should actually read other opinions, and maybe borrow one, and re-write it. Tiger Woods is a cheating scumbag! Do not judge lest thee be judged! Our culture is a gutter that pours into a sewer that empties into a cesspool! I should be trying to peer at the human condition through the prism of Tiger Woods’ propensity for courting mistresses who all look like aspiring event planners. Asking the big questions!

What is this story about? What does it say about us, collectively? Is it about the relationship between power and sex? Between the public and the private? Do celebrities enjoy a different moral code than we commoners? Are we too concerned with other people’s sex lives? Why does our society love a good witch hunt? By judging those in the public eye, are we judging ourselves? Why do men cheat? Biology? Opportunity? Boredom? Do all men cheat? If all men cheat, whom are we cheating with? A select coven of sexually voracious harlots who are the only sliver of womankind who don’t read US Weekly? Why am I able to ask so many questions about a scandal I read about on the cover of a magazine? This story is about a billionaire diva who felt he was entitled to get his knob polished, then got caught, right?

Wrong.

This story is about how much golf sucks. I blame the game for this melodramatic maelstrom of moralizing. Never give a nerd a god’s self-esteem: If the golfing industry hadn’t heralded Tiger as the next Mozart, the guy would never have thought he could get away with it. I guess one billion dollars makes you think you can seduce women in the night, then transform into a swan and fly away.

Mark Twain once called golf a good walk spoiled. I call it a nice little woodland beaten into submission, shorn, and transformed into a froufrou garden where rich men with pants pulled up too high can knock a little white ball around with sticks. It’s not even a sport. I’m pretty sure you need to sweat for something to be a sport. And don’t sell me the whole “you’re competing against yourself” thing. That just makes it easier to lie when bragging.

Golf inflates the ego of men who don’t need ego-inflating. Do you think the chummy cabal of moneybags who helped drive our economy off the cliff backslapped and guffawed and chomped cigars while playing volleyball? Seriously, if golf were abolished tomorrow, and the courses replaced with National Drink While You Stroll Parks, nobody would care. This industry was basically invented for dull dudes with beer tastes and champagne budgets who want a quiet Sunday away from home. No golf, no Tiger Woods. No Tiger Woods, no controversy eating up public oxygen that could be better used discussing MTV’s Italian-American minstrel show, “Jersey Shore.”

Did I mention I hate golf?

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