Mr. wOw Says – Let’s Get Out of Tiger Woods’s Driveway

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Here’s hoping the golf star doesn’t go all Hugh Grant on us

As we all know, Tiger Woods had a little accident in his driveway early this week. Apparently there were no drugs or drink involved. Perhaps it sprouted from a domestic dispute. Perhaps not. The dignified and private Mr. Woods has essentially said, “This is none of your business.” Meaning, the frothing media who are demanding “the truth.”

We’d like to say we are agog by cable TV’s talking heads who all behave as if Tiger had driven up their driveway and banged up their tree. Or slept with their girlfriend. But it was par for the gossip golf course. Several of the heads expressed grave doubts that “at that hour of the night, it’s hard to believe alcohol was not involved.” If only there was a way to sue for malicious speculation.
 
“We must, we will get to the bottom of this,” said one woman, who smiled broadly, and cheerfully. I hope her life remains as perfect as it surely must be. And so chock-full of vital matters to get to the bottom of.
 
Will Mr. Woods keep his own counsel, give no further statements, attend to his private life privately, no matter what cocktail waitress with sexy text messages and revelations pops up from the dregs of GimmieSomeAttentionville? Perhaps. He is under pressure to grovel before us all.
 
(What is there to say about people who come forward with intimate info on a star with whom one has dallied? E-mails, voicemails, photos. Are we supposed to think better of the bimbos/himbos who are not only sluts, but untrustworthy sluts?)
 
The public and press elevated Tiger Woods to some inhuman standard of moral conduct. He plays golf. He plays golf very well. I don’t recall him ever uttering the words, “Don’t step out on your wife,” while hitting a hole in one.
 
I don’t want to hear his apology. It won’t make me feel superior or comforted. I’m not disappointed, just … bored by the hypocrisy on both sides.

Tiger, do us a favor. Don’t go all Hugh Grant. Keep your sins to yourself. No pleasure is derived from this peanut gallery When Stars Regret. Tee off and try to keep it in your pants.

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