Player of the Decadeby Petra Mason / 14.01.2010
With golf champ Tiger Wood’s girl count in the double digits and headlines about all night sex parties, girl-on-girl 3-ways, ecstasy, S+M, kinky quickies and pretty much anything a dirty mind or rather the gutter press like “The New York Post” can make up, it’s time for us freaks to show Tiger some love.
Mahala readers may not have spent any time playing golf, or even watching it, but we have all been to work with a hangover, and we know it ain’t easy to focus on much with a babalaas. Steamy revelations about the sports superstar turning out to be “Athlete of the Decade” not only during, but after hours too are inspiring to say the least. This guy is hot. And that is why, more than ever, we should consider the first billionaire in sports history our hero.
But before you all get hysterical and point out the obvious; that he cheated, multiple times, on his wife, that he is a fallen angel, a fake. An image-consultant made myth of a man who fed us hype and that for all this he deserves a public shambokk-ing – keep in mind, at 33 years old this incredible talent is the best golfer in history. Anyway, when did you all become virgins?
So let us reverse to the beginning of the rumpus: in late November 2009, when the news broke about Tiger’s bizarre early a.m. fire hydrant accident, we were still buying the Tiger Woods brand fantasy story. After over 13 years in the media spotlight, Mr Clean was still squeaky. His handlers, primarily the largest talent management team in the world, the rather sinister sounding “International Management Group”, left nothing to chance, or to the imagination. Tiger means big bucks in endorsements, he is more than a brand, he’s an entire industry. And in the vanilla world of golf, he has always been the odd one out. To begin with, his name is Tiger, and not Todd. He’s black and he’s dominating a white man’s game. He’s good looking. He wears red on Sundays and he’s a practicing Buddhist. One of the rules of pro golf is to conform. It’s a deeply conservative, red neck sport, and at the top, it’s exclusively made up of good old boys, Republicans, the right wing, men who not long ago would not have allowed Tiger onto the green, who may at most, have hired him as a caddy. The very same guys who, to this day, will not allow women to join the prestigious Atlanta Golf Club where the Masters, the first of the Majors, takes place.
Therefore, Tiger, who for years has been a brand-marketing dream, has also been a bit of a dark horse, making him even sexier to a younger sports audience.
Now that Tiger has pulled-out of pro golf indefinitely, ratings for golf on television have plummeted. After all, he is the man who opened up golf to a completely new audience. What was previously a niche sport, thanks to him, has a completely new public. Without him, products like Tag Heuer, Gillette, Accenture, AT+T and Nike lose major star power. There is simply no one on his level of excellence to replace him with.
Part of his made for media persona included marrying a Swedish formermodel. Never having said a word in public, she seemed more likely to get a role in “Stepford Wives” than “COPS”, which turns out she’d be better cast for. But she missed her cue, and Tiger’s life turned into a John Waters movie, complete with little blonde serial mom getting old school on his lyin’ cheatin’ black ass, with a golf club nonetheless. Do we really need to feel that sorry for her? Sure we have all “lost it” before, but last time I checked, attacking someone with a golf club could kill them. And for this, along with her obvious personal pain and humiliation, she gets $300 million. Now, at 30, Ms Thang can retire to a fjord in her native Sweden and shack up with a hunky viking. Sure beats being in the public eye, stuck in a boring cluster-fuck gated community in Orlando, Florida, wondering who your husband is sex-ting while you and the kids are snoring.
By now you might be wondering why, if Tiger Woods has fucked everyone, then why not you? They say there is no accounting for taste, and when it comes to women, Tiger has none. Tiger’s birdies, 14 at last count, are all skanky with Barbie doll playmate names: Cori, Jamie, Mindy, Holly… they are mostly blonde, rockin’ fuck me pumps, with careers as porn stars or cocktail waitresses. Tiger’s lillys make Flavor Flav’s “Flavor of Love” girls look like the type you’d take home to your Moms. You know the type; they are all over the internet. Not suprisingly, Tiger’s harem of hussies are all proving to be as fake as their tits. Those bitches are blowing the whistle on him faster than they blow their clientele. It is hard to keep track of who is who and who got which book deal or what vodka endorsement, because with that Gucci bag crew, they all look the same.
So why so many tarts with no flavour Tiger? My guess is it is because they are like a diet of carbohydrates: easily available, briefly satisfying, but not enough to sustain you, so you crave more. Or perhaps he has just been doing the same chicks any jock dreams of doing, particularly the Cialis popping golf demographic (Cialis, a version of Viagra, happens to be the biggest advertiser on the Golf Channel). Hopefully, he’ll grow up, and his palette will improve.
The new Tiger, the real one, will be far more interesting than the automaton created first by his Father and then the handlers who came later. Tiger can emerge from this meltdown as what Tom Wolf might call “a man in full,” a complete human being, flawed and filled with needs, as we all are. The old Tiger was a child trying to live up to others’ expectations. The real Tiger is a man choosing to live his own life.