Dear Mr. Tiger Woods: I’m sorry, do we know each other?
So I turn on my TV this morning and I can’t seem to escape footage of a tall, good-looking millionaire apologizing for letting me down. My first reaction is that if he’d like to apologize for being tall, good-looking and a millionaire, not to mention blessed with athletic ability, well, swing away. But apologizing for letting me down…? I’m thinking: Excuse me? What? Do I know you? Are we old friends and I’ve somehow forgotten we ever met? Are you a member of my family? Do we work together? Are we neighbors? Are you that guy I see sometimes at the grocery store and you’re always really nice to my dogs? We introduced ourselves once and I forget your name but I’m pretty sure it isn’t “Tiger,” as I think I’d remember meeting a guy named “Tiger”? But this is the point, isn’t it? Buddy. Dude. Let me say this clearly: I don’t know you. I don’t care what you do. Your contrition is very nice and all, and I guess it’s sincere, but I really don’t care if you were raised a Buddhist and now you rely for spiritual guidance on something or someone who is apparently named “Accenture,” although that doesn’t sound like it can possibly be right. As long as we’re talking about this, which it looks like we have to, I don’t care if you spent time in in-patient rehab for sex addiction, because there’s no such thing as sex addiction. It’s a made-up bullshit thing, like the Kardashians. It used to be called “being a dog,” and you didn’t go to rehab for it. But I digress here. What I’m saying is, please stop telling me you’re sorry f0r disappointing me, because buddy, pal — and again, let me just lay this right out — we don’t know each other. Disappointment is something I reserve for people I actually know, and they for me. What you do is your own business. Oh, also? When you referred to your “foundation,” I’m really, really hoping you weren’t talking about your penis.