Although America accepted Tiger Woods as a successful black man in an arrogant white sport, they weren't quite ready for that same guy to use his man-parts above the radar of senseless celebrity worship.
Sleep well, David Letterman. Another celebrity has fallen from grace to take your place among the disgraced. Golfer extraordinaire, Tiger Woods is the latest media magnet to fall from the pedestal he was placed upon by millions of bored Americans. As miners of the pop culture pantheon, we love nothing more than to tear down and destroy the very same mortals we’d escalated to godlike stature.
It seems that our tight-assed, repressed society has had a cultural shit-fit at the realization that one of its idols is actually a human being made of flesh and blood. Worse than that, Tiger Woods is a human being with an iron in his undies, balls in his pocket and a sack full of testoserone. Unfortunately for el Tigre, his natural, biological urges contradict the squeaky clean, sexless image that our culture likes to saddle its icons with. Didn’t somebody inform him of the bogus ideals he was expected to live up to? For all the technological advancements we’ve made in the last 50 years, this country is still trying to hide sex from the mainstream. It was a part of life decades ago and it’s a part of life now. Even the Cleavers had to do it twice in order to pop out Wally and the Beave.
Sex and drugs have been the trappings of American fame and fortune since the country’s inception. In all likelihood, George Washington got his balls massaged by an admiring boat rower while crossing the Potomac. Thomas Jefferson was quite the popular stud among the housekeeping staff. It just goes with the territory. Joe the Plumber’s rise to national notoriety probably resulted in some trailer rockin’, as well. He probably got so much pussy, he thought he was at a family reunion. Fans and groupies alike all flock around those that they idolize or simply see as being more than themselves. They seem to think a degree of stardom will rub off on them from the DNA spray-gun.
As an iconic figure, Tiger Woods was more than willing to play the role of the blissfully married, asexual guy living the perfect life. He was a happy little Huxtable so long as it suited his wallet and kept his star shining. Now that he’s busted, though, everybody wants to scratch their nuts and wonder why he strayed. Look down your pants, folks. Perhaps, opportunity just got the best of him. Maybe his wife wore sweatpants around the house, stuffed her face with Fig Newtons, and described her bowel movements to him. I don’t know and quite frankly, I don’tcare. The infidelity of plastic icons is not worthy of our time. Anybody that idolized Woods for anything other than being good at a boring game should blame themselves for their own disappointment. Personally, I’m disappointed in him for publicly apologizing to the world. I find it deceitful. Bad publicity and lost endorsement deals are his only regret, in my opinion. I’m quite certain he knew he was a lousy husband when he was bangin’ cocktail waitresses in the sandtrap or visiting the ninth hole of PGA strippers.
Let’s give credit to somebody like Lindsay Lohan who despite her worthlessness doesn’t live the lie that Tiger Woods did. She wears debauchery on her sleeve and doesn‘t curtail her behavior to the palatability of a repressed American public. If nothing else, it is honest.