I know this is getting covered all over the web; even more, I know I have nothing that interesting to say on it. But how can you have a website and not weigh in on the massive Tiger Woods fuck-up?

The first thing that comes to mind is, I’m way more interested in both Tiger and his wife now that the whole drive-over-the-fire-hydrant incident and try-to-club-your-husband-to-death-with-a-putter incident has happened. Before this, Tiger was simply THE choice for steadfast and boring in the wild world of sports. He never did anything good, except hit a golf ball like a robot. I read an ad he did for Mastercard or American Express, can’t remember which, where he listed Hootie and the Blowfish as his favorite group. I mean, are you fucking KIDDING? I would have written that as a joke if I was doing a parody of Woods’ choices. But no: he was dead serious. He married a Swedish model and they pooped out a kid. The Woods family bored me to tears, and even saddened me, in a small, secret way.

And then he fucked a semi-ugly skank, and everything changed.

Like Bill Clinton’s arguably insane choice to get hummers from Monie Love(insky), Woods put everything on the line just to satisfy the rampant, starving calls of his refuse-to-be-ignored weiner. That made him just like us, in other words.

I mean, no matter how hot your wife is, she’s never going to be as hot as the limitless capacity of all the golf-course skanks in the world (are there golf groupies? There must be. There are groupies for every sport, even WNBA. I am going to do a documentary on the male groupies who troll the hotel lobby, restlessly, after every LA Sparks game. Wearing miniskirts and high-heels. Watching hopefully. Actually, if there were groupies, they are likely young lesbians, wearing the aformentioned skirts. Watching. Hopefully. Documentary here I come). Elle the Swede eventually tarnishes; and every man who can is going to try to accumulate more notches on his belt, because, well, that’s just the way we operate.

Really, the whole thing is discouraging from a monogamist’s point of view. You don’t get much hotter than this wife.

You Don’t Get Much Hotter Than This For a Wife.

(Do you? And yet it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Jennifer Aniston was not enough for Brad Pitt. Scarlett Johannsen was not enough for Justin Timberlake, and Jessica Biel won’t be, either. Polygamy probably gets boring, too. The single life is awful, but at least it promises variety. This one-for-life thing just doesn’t work; mostly because of PENISES. Cut them off. It will solve things. It worked for cats, and it can work for you.)

Now, back to my main point, about how Swedish white-trash this Elin Nordegren thing is shaping up: she saw HER MAN getting into a car to go fuck his cookie, and she took the putters to his BRAIN! He escapes the house, running for his life, and she attacks his mode of transport, subsequently clawing his face and sending him to the hospital. Go Elie, baby! This calls for another shot of you in a bikini!

Swedish White Trash

All I’m saying is that we, as American people, like to see our stars get pulled down from the sky. For as  we worship celebrities, so do we all desire to unseat them, and take their place. I can’t hit a golf ball to save my life, but I enjoy blondes as much as the next man, and if Nordegren sees fit to divorce her hunky Titleist hitter and awkward hi-fiver at some point in the future, I might consent to meet her for a coffee or a quick live abortion show at the Red Vic, my treat of course, El (put the clubs down). And if Tiges wants to head to Betty Ford for a quick tour on the Lohanesque rehab circuit, gaining a paunch and developing rheumatoid arthritis in his elbow and knees, sucking down capfuls of GHB and chewing Ibuprofins at an alarming rate while he listens to Hootie, sweating, on his walkman, then I’ll watch it on reality TV. At home with the Woodses. Watching that Balloon Boy float across the sky.

With the Cleveland Cavaliers on the brink of elimination in the NBA Eastern Conference Finals, speculation is rampant as to LeBron’s “legacy” in the sport. And with good reason: without a championship, can you even mention him in the same sentence as six-time ring-winner MJ? No one wants to be Wilt Chamberlain to history’s Bill Russell; and for all the premature burying by the media, it looks as if Kobe, in the end, may come out on top this season and thus carve a significantly deeper niche in history’s bedpost.

Recently, ESPN pushed the LeBron issue even further and published an article evaluating the current best-athlete-on-the-planet’s relative chances in the NFL, should he choose to go that route.  Unsurprisingly, Bronnie’s forecast was sunny; but I for one like to imagine that if LBJ had a mind to pull a ‘94-’95 Jordan and go on hiatus, he might perhaps consider a different athletic career: to wit, a season or two in the Valley, playing for the Van Nuys PussySmashers. Let’s do the pundit thing for a moment . . . and see how he stacks up.

America is sick - and I’m playing doctor for a day. No, that doesn’t mean I’m going to pull America’s pants down and try to sniff its butt crack; nor will I inspect it superficially for fifteen minutes, and then bill it for $950. It means I am going to fix things.

America’s main problem? An abiding love of compartmentalization. For example, we envision our Mr. Obama as principally a speech-maker and a hand-shaker. But the truth of the matter is that he is likely equal parts fart-maker and delicious-masturbation-taker.

Compartmentalization is a kind of hypocrisy. It is a kind of untruth. Most of all, compartmentalization is a denial of the diverse and often contradictory nature of humankind. For this reason, I prescribe more mixing.

Indeed: mixing. Let me elaborate. We’re all riveted by the NBA Western Conference Finals, right? It’s Carmelo vs. Kobe, a battle for the ages; and only inches away, courtside, you get the Laker Girls spinning dextrously on glimmering haunches designed by God and gift-wrapped in shimmering purple latex. Yet we get about seventeen televised seconds - max - of Laker Girls per playoff game. Even a seasoned wank specialist like myself can barely pull off an explosive, satisfying orgasm at that rate.

My suggestion? Upon completion of a crowd-pleasing alpha-play (such as a thunderous dunk or a murderous blocked shot, wherein the roundball is expelled from the court into the stands with a rousing, abusive smack, to be followed by a victorious testicular bellow and a clenched-fist-forearmed-stiff-twitch-of-the-pectorals) - it’s blowjob time. Lamar Odom + Latina Laker Girl + slobbering deepthroat action = ratings through the roof, not to mention a David Stern with a sufficiently more lubricated anus.

I’ve been reading a lot of Bill Simmons these days (”The Sports Guy” from ESPN). He can rock a column like no one I’ve seen since Hunter S. Thompson or Chuck Klosterman, and the beauty of it is, I don’t really care what he’s writing about. Yes, I’m partially fixated on his columns about the NBA because I’m a rabid basketball fan, but while I hate both football and baseball, I find that when Simmons is writing about them, I’m nonetheless totally interested. Some people are just geniuses like that. Hunter Thompson’s book on the 1972 McGovern campaign made me a political junkie for a few weeks, when in my real life, it’s something I basically can’t stand to even speak about.

Recently, one Simmons column featured an extended email-engagement with author Malcolm Gladwell (”The Tipping Point” and “Outliers”). Their debate focused upon a group of celebrity athletes whom Simmons had identified as the opposite of Gladwell’s “Outliers:” in his words, “Inliers.” Allow me to quote:

“In “Outliers,” your thesis was that success wasn’t as random as people seem to think, and that outside factors play a much bigger role than we realize.  I thoroughly enjoyed the book even if you totally missed an obvious chapter: How the dawn of the Internet made Anna Kournikova about three times as wealthy as she would have been had she broken onto the tennis scene 10 years earlier. Does she bank $50 million in endorsements without horny teenagers Googling her? No way. . . I also think you should have done Donna Summer, Scooby-Doo and Jerry Seinfeld chapters.

My idea for the sequel? “Inliers.” Not as catchy, and it kind of sounds like a bad George Clooney movie, but bear with me.