All the world loves a lover — except the wife. Elin will have difficulty finding a Christmas gift for Tiger. What do you give someone who’s had everybody?
Maybe Tiger, whose father always made him practice golf strokes, just had a restrictive upbringing. Maybe he’s simply making up for lost time because, growing up, he was not able to have a social life. In fact, as I understand it, he didn’t start dating until after he was married.
Beginning today, attorneys will bless me, erect a shrine to me, possibly canonize me. I may even henceforward become known as St. Cindy because I my very own personal self have conceived a new legal strategy. A few wives ago, thanks to Donald Trump, the prenup became Standard Operating Procedure. Now, thanks to Tiger Woods, what may soon become SOP is — tada! — the pre-shtup.
A future world-class golfer with an itch to sink a putt may utter but two opening sentences when happening upon a pair of boobs of his choice: 1) Lie down. 2) Sign here. A variation might be: 1) There’s the bed. 2) Here’s the deal.
He could write his “in consideration of goods and services, etc.” on a cocktail napkin. The hotel desk clerk could be the notary. The bell captain could be the witness.
Since the pen is mightier than the sword, let it now be as mighty as the penis. IF she behaves and keeps her mouth and text-messaging quiet, the john might stand her a year of hair tints and waxing. Ground rules — or, in this case, mattress rules — might include the “dropped trou” clause: Whereas wherefore and in witness hereunto: Take my love, take my money — but do not take me to a reporter.
The shtupee will sign to these contractual provisions:
1. I will not even Google the Web site of Gloria Allred.
2. If our encounters become public, I guarantee to swear the doctor said I have only weeks to live and charitably minded Tiger was having sex with me just to fulfill my last request to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
3. I will use the code book supplied to me. Like if I text “I loved that sermon last night,” it would mean “You were so great in bed I thought I was in heaven.”
4. I promise to register my phone in the name of The Salvation Army.
5. Upon his request, I promise to bind Tiger in tight leather and whip him with a nine iron until he shouts, “I’m not fit to lick Jack Nicklaus‘ golf shoes.”
6. I will forever swear “I did not have sexual relations with that man.”
7. If pressed, however, my only statement to the press will be: “The guy made Alex Rodriguez look impotent by comparison.”
Should any bimbette breach this confidentiality, the question then becomes: What’s a proper penalty? Can’t put her behind bars. This is the type who’d suffer if she couldn’t go INTO bars. In Tiger’s case, punishment for these females could’ve been banishment. To Sweden. In the winter. With Elin. And her mother.
And he picked such unclassy types. They weren’t lovers; they were lavatories. He just relieved himself. One of his ladies ratted him out because, as she put it, “I knew that man couldn’t be trusted — he’s gone back to his wife.”
I’m not saying certain of his partners were such lowlifes that they’d have to go UP to ride the subway. But anyone notice that he hasn’t played a foursome, threesome or even twosome with one CEO, physicist or architect?
Oy, Tiger, we hardly knew ye. Two things you should finally and forever zip up. The second is your cellphone. Or put a combination lock on it. At least on the cellphone.
The only guy we can be sure never cheated on his wife was Adam. And possibly Jimmy “I have lust in my heart” Carter. Statistics state 41 percent of husbands in America cheat. (Presumably, the rest cheat in Europe.)
It’s happened since the days of The Flood. Even Noah knew enough to put two of everything in the ark. Irving Cro-Magnon did it down at the riverbed with Shirley Neanderthal. Stone tablets reveal how these early ladies spent sad nights all alone in their caves. How they smelled perfume on their husband’s loincloth. How they noticed, when he dragged home after a day of hunting, that his spear was at half-mast.
Tiger is only human — although obviously an animal. The man lived up to his name because he has an illness. Same as someone with strep throat. He just needs treatment. His cure is a blond nurse with a low-cut uniform — taken twice a day. And then definitely go to bed.
For all men who think not with their brains but with other parts of their body, ’tis the era of the pre-shtup. Every husband enrolled in the Slut of the Month Club now knows what must be on his list for Santa — a lawyer.
The point is this Tiger is now an ass. Fore? Please. The guy went 10, 11 and 12, and his prowess at using a mashie niblick is rightfully costing him big. Maybe I’m bitter because it appears I’m the only female around he didn’t hit on.