As I read more about the Tiger Woods saga, it has become abundently clear that he is stonewalling the situation.
My stoic grandmother always said, "nothing good ever happens after 2:00 a.m." And while we may never find out what happened outside Tiger's house in the wee hours of November 27, there is plenty of web speculation to chew on.
Another of granny's favorite sayings was, "Shit happens. If you don't look down, you'll step in it."
Tiger, in many ways, really stepped in it. And his wife is pretty damn angry.
I know this because after 12 years of marriage and various domestic disagreements, a spouse does not swing a golf club in the early a.m. without just cause. Hell, my temper has flared over much stupider things and once impulsively kicked a hole in my bedroom wall with a clog....but that's another story for another day....
All was quiet in the sprawling Florida home. The children, safely under the nanny's care, had long been bathed and put to bed miles away in the estate's southeast wing. The lights were dim. She sat alone at the sleek modern dining table. The places were still set with Hermes china - a gift from Oprah - featuring a tiger design and starched linen napkins featuring an embroidered entwined double E. "Elin and Eldrick....it really meant something...once," she sighed. Bacarat crystal golblets glinted in the mix of candle and moonlight that flooded into the room from the bare baywindow. Yet, even in the shadows she seethed. Perhaps it was the rumors of an affair or maybe just the effects of the Pinot Noir-fueled "American Psycho," "Saw III," and "Fatal Attraction" filmfest she insisted upon earlier in the evening. The regal profile and mantle of platinum hair was offset by the cold, hard stare in her eyes. The time on her Tag Heurer watch read 2:00 a.m.
"Where the fuck was he?" she thought. "Rvvhel!" (swedish for asshole) she muttered under her breathe as she fixed her eyes on the long, gated drive, looking for the tell-tale headlights of his Cadiallac Escalade. The Buick Enclave was already parked at the start of the front walk along the circular drive. It was packed and ready for an errant getaway. "I have had enough," she thought. "He will not make a rvvhel out of me!"
She could no longer sit, and strode down the long hallway to the garage. "Everything is set," she thought. The pristine, damask couches in the study had been stripped of their pillows and covered in layers of course canvas tarp, mylar and industrial plastic. "That is where he will see me," she told herself as she opened the door into the garage and scanned the wall for power tools. "Rvvhel knuller!" she breathed (asshole fucker) as she walked toward the DeWalt chainsaw. There, standing stoic and mocking underneath the horror movie weapon of choice, was his prized set of Nike Titanium golf clubs. These were no practice set, or reserves. Encased in a glowing halo of stainless steel, these clubs were the PGA equivalent to the holy grail. This was the set that had won countless titles and championships. The set that helped construct the large and looming ego that he could do no wrong.
Without a thought, she grabbed the driver with the largest, widest, sharpest head and resumed her perch in the dining room. Then, the gates opened. He killed the headlights and eased up the driveway. It was too much, and she snapped.
"Where the hell where you?" she screamed as she leapt out the front door, brandishing the driver high over her head. "Were you with HER! Were you with that jdvlar fitta hora ab ab ab?" she screamed (fucking c-word whore).
"Whoa! Whoa! Eels, baby. I was with the guys." he explained and opened the car door.
"On Thanksgiving? You shit, you should be with your family! Where were you? Where did you go? WHO WERE you with?"
"Jesus Christ, you Nordic bitch, I was with Shaq and Mike....we were watching the game. What the hell? I just lost track of time...and besides you said it was a silly American holiday...."
"YOU JUST lost track of time. You have a mother fucking Rolex watch for every day of the year and you LOST track of time?" She swung at him hard. Nearly missing his Nike Golf hat. She hit the hood of the car. "Your stupid fuckin' cheating friends." she cried and hit the grill. "Why can't you just hang out with that nice Bill Nye the science guy we met at the block party last year." She swung wildly, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.
"Ouch! That's the money arm you crazy motherfucking Dane. You better settle yourself down, you live in Tiger's Den, under Tiger's rule."
"Aggghhh....I'm SWEDISH, you ass!" She hit the windshield.
"Damn." he said and jumped back in the car, turning on the ignition and shifting to reverse. He hit the gas and didn't even look. Bam. Right into the Buick Enclave. Reverse again as she hit a quarter panel. Bam. "Shit." he thought as he backed through the gate and hit the fire hydrant across the street. She was foaming at the mouth, running after him.
He quickly tried to Twitter, "Wife is crazy, mad, hot, mess. Damn I'm turned on. Tiger Out." But before he hit send, she sent the driver crashing through the back window hitting him in the head. Trying to dodge the club, he veered and hit a tree.
As he was slumped over, she dropped the clubs and cried, "Oh Eldrick! Eldrick! Are you hurt? Can you hear me? I'm so sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry."
"Fuck," he thought to himself, "crazy wife, broken golf clubs, two wrecked cars....Steel, I mean Shaq, where the hell are you man, hook a brother up...Fuck TMZ, the make-up sex on this one alone is gonna kill me...."
My stoic grandmother always said, "nothing good ever happens after 2:00 a.m." And while we may never find out what happened outside Tiger's house in the wee hours of November 27, there is plenty of web speculation to chew on.
Another of granny's favorite sayings was, "Shit happens. If you don't look down, you'll step in it."
Tiger, in many ways, really stepped in it. And his wife is pretty damn angry.
I know this because after 12 years of marriage and various domestic disagreements, a spouse does not swing a golf club in the early a.m. without just cause. Hell, my temper has flared over much stupider things and once impulsively kicked a hole in my bedroom wall with a clog....but that's another story for another day....
So, in the tongue and cheek vein of my "Sesame Street Layoffs" post and an "open letter from Barbara Walter's Vagina, The Cha-Cha Chow-enge," here's my view of what really happened:
All was quiet in the sprawling Florida home. The children, safely under the nanny's care, had long been bathed and put to bed miles away in the estate's southeast wing. The lights were dim. She sat alone at the sleek modern dining table. The places were still set with Hermes china - a gift from Oprah - featuring a tiger design and starched linen napkins featuring an embroidered entwined double E. "Elin and Eldrick....it really meant something...once," she sighed. Bacarat crystal golblets glinted in the mix of candle and moonlight that flooded into the room from the bare baywindow. Yet, even in the shadows she seethed. Perhaps it was the rumors of an affair or maybe just the effects of the Pinot Noir-fueled "American Psycho," "Saw III," and "Fatal Attraction" filmfest she insisted upon earlier in the evening. The regal profile and mantle of platinum hair was offset by the cold, hard stare in her eyes. The time on her Tag Heurer watch read 2:00 a.m.
"Where the fuck was he?" she thought. "Rvvhel!" (swedish for asshole) she muttered under her breathe as she fixed her eyes on the long, gated drive, looking for the tell-tale headlights of his Cadiallac Escalade. The Buick Enclave was already parked at the start of the front walk along the circular drive. It was packed and ready for an errant getaway. "I have had enough," she thought. "He will not make a rvvhel out of me!"
She could no longer sit, and strode down the long hallway to the garage. "Everything is set," she thought. The pristine, damask couches in the study had been stripped of their pillows and covered in layers of course canvas tarp, mylar and industrial plastic. "That is where he will see me," she told herself as she opened the door into the garage and scanned the wall for power tools. "Rvvhel knuller!" she breathed (asshole fucker) as she walked toward the DeWalt chainsaw. There, standing stoic and mocking underneath the horror movie weapon of choice, was his prized set of Nike Titanium golf clubs. These were no practice set, or reserves. Encased in a glowing halo of stainless steel, these clubs were the PGA equivalent to the holy grail. This was the set that had won countless titles and championships. The set that helped construct the large and looming ego that he could do no wrong.
Without a thought, she grabbed the driver with the largest, widest, sharpest head and resumed her perch in the dining room. Then, the gates opened. He killed the headlights and eased up the driveway. It was too much, and she snapped.
"Where the hell where you?" she screamed as she leapt out the front door, brandishing the driver high over her head. "Were you with HER! Were you with that jdvlar fitta hora ab ab ab?" she screamed (fucking c-word whore).
"Whoa! Whoa! Eels, baby. I was with the guys." he explained and opened the car door.
"On Thanksgiving? You shit, you should be with your family! Where were you? Where did you go? WHO WERE you with?"
"Jesus Christ, you Nordic bitch, I was with Shaq and Mike....we were watching the game. What the hell? I just lost track of time...and besides you said it was a silly American holiday...."
"YOU JUST lost track of time. You have a mother fucking Rolex watch for every day of the year and you LOST track of time?" She swung at him hard. Nearly missing his Nike Golf hat. She hit the hood of the car. "Your stupid fuckin' cheating friends." she cried and hit the grill. "Why can't you just hang out with that nice Bill Nye the science guy we met at the block party last year." She swung wildly, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.
"Ouch! That's the money arm you crazy motherfucking Dane. You better settle yourself down, you live in Tiger's Den, under Tiger's rule."
"Aggghhh....I'm SWEDISH, you ass!" She hit the windshield.
"Damn." he said and jumped back in the car, turning on the ignition and shifting to reverse. He hit the gas and didn't even look. Bam. Right into the Buick Enclave. Reverse again as she hit a quarter panel. Bam. "Shit." he thought as he backed through the gate and hit the fire hydrant across the street. She was foaming at the mouth, running after him.
He quickly tried to Twitter, "Wife is crazy, mad, hot, mess. Damn I'm turned on. Tiger Out." But before he hit send, she sent the driver crashing through the back window hitting him in the head. Trying to dodge the club, he veered and hit a tree.
As he was slumped over, she dropped the clubs and cried, "Oh Eldrick! Eldrick! Are you hurt? Can you hear me? I'm so sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry."
"Fuck," he thought to himself, "crazy wife, broken golf clubs, two wrecked cars....Steel, I mean Shaq, where the hell are you man, hook a brother up...Fuck TMZ, the make-up sex on this one alone is gonna kill me...."
