And, damn if I wasn't right in all of my predictions! Except for the Buddhism thing...I thought Tiger would go the Allah route and have some of those Farrakhan-looking guys around him. Because, you know, that's what Mike Tyson and Tawana Brawley did when they found religion. Anyway, the article makes no reference to it at all, in any case, because the mainstream media even mentioning religion, even a hippie one like Buddhism, causes reporters' heads to explode.
Anyways, Tiger's going back into rehab, to hide, certainly, but to heal? To change? To make himself a better man, husband and father? I wouldn't count on it, and I personally could give a rat's behind. I have my own life, and don't need to to live vicariously through Tiger Woods, thank you.
Randy men, you see, tend to stay that way, until slowed by age and gray hair and the bad back -- and then they eat Viagra like candy, trying to keep the side up for at least one more week. Eventually, they've been worn out, or they get clapped-out, and those are the only ways the rutting season ever comes to a true end. This Tiger is not going to change his stripes anytime soon, I don't think, but I guess the sporting thing to do is to wish him luck and hope that he does, huh?
So....good luck. I really, really, really hope you can finally learn how to keep your zipper closed, like a civilized human being, and you gain a measure of control over your schlong, because you know, you're NOT a baboon. I hope you can manage that easily and long enough to return to that stupid little thing you do with a stick and a tiny ball, that has no body-checking, tackling, or defense of any kind, but which fat, rich white men with no personalities and a lot of tummy blubber still insist is a sport. I guess because if it weren't considered a sport, something for real men, then it would be...I don't know...super-gay. I don't know, something about chasing balls around a manicured lawn in business casual just screams "GAY!", but that's me.
Anyway, about that zipper thing; I can see where you just might need to go to school to learn that you shouldn't leave your seed in every willing orifice you might come (no pun intended) across. I mean, I thought all the higher primates could, to one extent or another, control that sort of thing. Chimpanzees on speed apparently fucked less that Tiger -- who judging from the rogues' gallery of Waffle House and Wal-Mart conquests -- merely required the faintest heartbeat and a body at room temperature.
I mean, it's a disease, right? Being unable to stop fucking everything that moves? It's some sort of disability, the inability to keep a zipper in the upright position and closed. Such a difficult task that one apparently has to get professional help to better explain the concept. I don't buy it for a moment; I think Tiger's just taking an extended vacation in what purports to be a rehab facility, and intends to stay there for as long as it takes the worst of the furor over his...indiscretions...to finally die away, and then he can return to the golf course, and be the same old dispassionate, control-freak, cold-blooded motherfucker he was before this all happened. He's simply hiding until this great embarrassment is forgotten.
The only things he's probably learned from the experience, I reckon, is that the next time he'll make certain the bitch doesn't have text messaging, and signs a non-disclosure agreement before foreplay.
You can fool yourself and hide in your fake-rehab, all you want, Tiger. You're not really there to fix anything as much as you are to avoid the public humiliation; we'll still be laughing at you in another year, rest assured. Why, I bet the second you leave that rehab facility, you'll make an "innocent suggestion" to the boys that "Damn, I could really go for some Denny's right about now..." because I guess to you, a Grand Slam isn't just for breakfast anymore. You can't help yourself, and despite all the high-priced professional help in the world, you never will.
At least not until your dick either breaks or falls off....
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