At the 2010 PGA Show, one booth kept this insipid shit storm going strong by unveiling golf balls with the faces of the waitresses, hostesses and adult film actresses he nailed painted on them. They're called Tail of the Tiger Golf Balls.
Michael Caldwell, cheesy proprietor and golf nerd extraordinaire was featured on the news last night hocking these hastily-painted heirlooms of shame. Since the local media whores have no pictures, accounts or video of Tiger "on the inside," (ahem) these pricks will air anything that reminds the vacuous celebrity-hungry public about some dude that ran around on his wife who happens to be pretty good at a sport.
I must admit, this is better than the local news giving airtime to every blue-haired shithead on the links giving us a snide comment about Tiger "learning his lesson." I was tortured by that shit for about four solid weeks after this thing started. I call it 'hour zero of shit I care nothing about.'
The website has a wordy, unnecessarily defensive introduction where he clumsily defends the owner's exploitation of a dozen fame-slurping guttersnipes:
Unlike other contemporary professional athletes, Tiger Woods hasn't physically
abused or hurt anybody. Tiger just had a wandering eye.
My integrity requires that I correct Mr. Caldwell here: I once heard a commentary by some twit breaking down his swing. "If I hit a ball like hard, my crotch would fly off," said an admirer, alluding to his core strength and lower body power. So isn't it safe to assume that Tiger actually did hurt these women in their lady parts? Text messages suggest just that:
I THINK I JUST SHIT OUT MY OVARIES. LOL ;-)
Also, I'd like to defend my gender and state for the record that checking out the server at Blue Martini might be construed as a wandering eye. Banging out nearly twenty women is some dirty dog shit. Caldwell repeatedly tells us that he's here to comfort us through these trying times:
Tail of the Tiger Golf Balls are designed to lift the spirits of golfers around
the world who are saddened by this loss on so many levels - from those who
make a living at the game to companies that sell products, to the fans who just
love to watch a master practice his craft.
Excuse me, saddened by this loss? Oh, Mike! Thank you so much for holding me! How will I ever watch a man hit a tiny ball and fucking walk!?!?! All I've had to comfort me is men's tennis! Care to join me in the steam bath for some fetal spooning? Afterwards, we can admire my collection of Arnold Palmer commemorative dinner plates.
It's been a long time since I've last seen a somewhat comical product with a sales pitch completely devoid of humor. Don't watch the video clip, or you will lose a part of your soul that you need to have fun ... FOREVER. Tell you what, fellas: either this guy is a retired accountant or I'll buy the round for the next hole. Has anyone seen my Mindy?