An Open Letter to Tiger Woods

(You knew it was coming-- don't act surprised.)

Dear Tiger,

Hmm. "Dear Tiger." That sounds very silly. It's probably how Sophia Loren used to begin the vast majority of her written correspondence in the late '60s and early '70s. Let's try this again.

Dear Mr. Woods,

No. Now I just feel like I'm writing to James Woods. Aw, fuck it.

Hi.

You're probably not in the mood to get a letter from Mr. Apron right about now-- kind of like pouring a vat of turpentine in an open wound probably-- but I felt the need to sit down and compose a letter to you, and this blog is, after all, all about me. And my needs.

Speaking of needs-- I know that men have needs. A man's primary need, of course, is getting his rocks off-- this, although some would argue the point, comes before lesser luxuries like food, water, a 2009 Cadillac Escalade, and oxygen. So, Tigs, while the rest of the puritanical world may pretend not to understand your Maslow-ish need Instant Semenize a select population of taut, voluptuous, long-haired womanhood, please know that I do.

You're a horny mother, and I get that.

They say that fame and fortune open men up to the very real probability of marital infidelity, and I hear that, too. You probably can't drive down the street without women flinging their thongs through your open driver's side window. Perhaps it was even a sliver of airborne lingerie that obstructed your vision the night you schooled that fire hydrant. I don't know. Women must literally deposit themselves on your genitals at every waking moment-- it must be difficult to find time to practice golfing which is what you did for a living up until this past weekend, right?

Who knows what you'll be doing now that your reputation is in tatters and you're all banged the fuck up and will probably soon be looking for lodging at the closest Best Western? Philly needs dynamic teachers in its inner city schools, if you're interested. Granted, the bevy of cocktail waitresses you've become accustomed to won't be salivating at your heels anymore, but I'm sure a few of the students will proposition you during study hall or detention. There's always Wall Street, too-- Lord knows we could use another individual of dubious moral fiber shuffling America's money around these days.

On a radio program today, it was suggested that we ought not to judge celebrities like you too quickly, that our prurient and salacious appetite for sexual scandal and building people ivory towers only to delight in bashing them down is part of America's endemic illness as a society. It was also said that a celebrity's public life can be exemplary, even if their private life is a sordid, sticky mess, like Bill Clinton's, for example. I listened to this commentator's views with great interest, and you know what conclusion I came to?

Celebrity or no, it isn't very difficult to not stick your dick in other womens' pussies, especially when your own wife is hot as motherfuckinballs.

Drive carefully!

Yours,
Mr. Apron