Aha just the tonic for the Ryder Cup!
We reprise a Beamus O'Bradaigh rant that he wrote in Calgary at the Grey Cup last year.
Where it all shimmered chimera with a fulsome degree of ifs, ands, buts, butts, and oh myyyyyys!
Tiger is dumping his detritus in Wales?
Or is he?
Originally published as:
Tiger Tiger Burning Blight - Blather Bunk and Blunted Bytes.
By Seamus O’Bradaigh
Tiger, Tiger, fess-up tonight, find reprieve, shed some light.
Geez, Tiger, what the hell kind of mid-life crisis have you embarked on, for crap’s sake?
I’m guessin’ that there’s more, much more limping legless from that closet of detritus that you’ve been packing with salty dreams, fantasies and high def models.
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| Ah Tiger ... Ain't deception, false premise and wavering schizoid behavior wonderful. Good luck with this Ryder Cup thing. By the way ... How're the kids? |
Ah, Tiger, Tiger, I think you might, need a preacher of your own tonight.
Find a pulpit, confess, connive and canoodle. Cram ten years of transgression into one glorious, grandiose and grandiloquent sound bite. Cry, plead cajole.
For god’s sake be sure to have your wife and kids in the background.
Channel your inner Flip Wilson. Tell the world: “The devil made me do it!”
Better yet. Find Bill Clinton.
Ask him what the “meaning of is is.”
Ah pundits, poets, preening power brokers and popinjay press. Climbing all over this one like rats on a pork bone.
Tiger, Tiger quite a sight, knockin’ spikes by firelight.
I’m actually quite happy to see Tiger on the spit doin’ a slow naked roll with the Heinz BBQ sauce splattered liberally over the appropriate parts of his anatomy.
And I’m especially impressed by Jesper Parnevik, who had the cohunes and ticklish temerity to come out and say what a lot of golfers were probably already thinking.
To wit: hey Tiger methinks the lady doth protest unmuch; and she should have clobbered you with a driver instead of that true temper three iron. Fore!
Ah Tiger, after all that practice you still can’t keep yourself out of the water (fire hydrant) or the woods (that lovely pruned Elm) and you still don’t have the slightest idea about what old Earl (your dad) was trying to say when he told you to go forth and act like a man.
And no Tiger … men do not make a habit of cruising Vegas hot spots for 23 year old waitresses, nor do they prattle, pound pattered pavement, and piss around New York with inveterate 32 year old Hungarian sports groupies. Shit, that’s Donald Trump’s shtick.
Crunch the numbers Tiger. Just how much shit, spit and shineola do you really want to bring to this buffet?
Ah Tiger, Tiger burned the wife, find some solace, get a life.
To be fair, Parnevik did introduce his former nanny Elin to Tiger and he’s probably feeling some gut wrenching guilt from Tiger’s betrayal of a young woman who is by all accounts a dedicated wife and mother.
Word is out that money has already slid from Tiger’s vault to Elin’s pre-nupped cash and carry. Ah, would this really be a story if the lawyers weren’t scrambling for their 15 per cent.
Ah Tiger, Tiger, crumbling knight, palimony follows spite.
This is just another case of cognitive dissonance run riot. The notion that if I’m doing well, and I’m mega wealthy, I must be a pretty darn good guy.
It’s called a rich sense of entitlement and I think what Tiger forgot, is what some philosophers know only too well.
Power corrupts and absolute power creates moral ambiguity.
And moral ambiguity in the hands of snooty, self-aggrandized spoiled brats leads to … hmmm, what’s the word? Oh yes, diddling.
Hey Tiger, hearken the Amish.
You know what they say, don’t you?
Sex is the gateway sin … leads to dancing, coffee and internal combustion engines.
Ah, Tiger, Tiger snickered slights, lookit’ Phil, a shining light.
Yes, not only has lefty Phil Mickelson handed you your butt on the course, he has also, by standing so bravely by his wife throughout her chemotherapy treatments, gained the moral high ground. Go Lefty go!
Now, there’s talk about you and Oprah hopping into the bright sublime of a Harpo shine. The thought of Tiger and Oprah mooning, mincing and meekly mopping the ratings with an hour-long dipsy-doodle into some transient modality just brought back my lunch.
Oprah, do the world a favor for Christ’s sake.
Crumple up your ego and go find a real cause.
Ah, Tiger, Tiger ugly sight, leaking blood on Friday night.
I hear you won’t be banging clubs, uprooting small shrubs and abusing the f-word in your own tournament upcoming in a couple of weeks.
Tell you what Tiger.
I’m really going to miss those fist pumps, that iconoclast’s smirk, the thousand mile stare of the self-absorbed egoist, and I’m especially going to miss the base, boorish banter emanating from your Kiwi caddy, the rude, rumpled and randy Stevie Williams.
Ah, Tiger, Tiger burning bright, do me a favor … go fly a kite.
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