1. Monday, July 22, 2002

    guest blogger: paul f. 

    Funny, i just got off the phone with my friend Tiger. Thought you might want to do some cutting-and-pasting.

    Sorry that I’m not writing about lesbian sex, bukkake, or hanging out in Philly. And you really don’t want to see me wearing a plaid catholic girl skirt.

    A conversation with Tiger Woods:

    Yo, Tiger!


    How’s it hanging?

    Could be better. I kinda blew it on Saturday, huh?

    Man, everyone shoots 81. I wish I could shoot 81 on the front nine.

    I think the last time I shot 81, I was, what, 8? Ah, hell, who cares? Life is good.

    You’re telling me, brother. You just played some of the worst golf of your life and you still walked away with thirty-eight grand. Not bad for four days.

    You think I shouldn’t cash the check?

    Heck no! It’s what you do. Funny, though. How much is GM paying you to push their Buicks?

    Can’t tell you that, Paulie.

    Don’t call me that, Eldrick.

    Touche. Tell you what — every time they run one of those ads, I get a check.

    You got The Man working for you.


    And you got a blonde Swedish swimsuit model waiting at home.

    Chicks dig the long ball, what can I say?

    You know, I think that some people might be saying that you don’t think a sista’s good enough for you.

    That’s bull.

    Whadda mean?

    I mean, come on. Do you see anyone bustin’ Derek Jeter’s chops because he goes out with white girls?

    Derek’s goin’ out with half the female population of Manhattan. And he was dating Mariah for a while.

    Maybe that’s what pushed her over the edge.

    Maybe. But anyway, it’s not like people think that D-man’s the great black hope.

    Man, people keep forgetting that I’m half-asian, too.

    Well, it’s not like you’re reminding them.

    Should I?

    Can’t answer that question for you. But you’re not exactly going out of your way to be progressive.

    Nature of the game, man. You think that I should get people riled up because some stupid journalist has a bone to pick?

    You could stick your neck out a little. People listen to you, ya know.

    They do?

    Yeah, they do.

    They shouldn’t.


    I wear red polo shirts and I can whack a little little white ball three-hundred yards. It’s what I do for a living. I play a game. I’m the best in the world at it. And people think that I should be Martin Luther King, Jr. because of this?

    Hey, someone’s got to say something.

    You know, the old saying? Hand, dog, biting? Is being the greatest golfer ever not enough? Is being the first black man–

    –there you go with the black thing again–

    –OK, first black/asian man to win a major, let alone all four of them, not enough? Maybe I’m not Jackie Robinson, but I got the hate mail, the death threats, all that, too.

    So what you’re saying–

    –is that hey, cut me a little slack. So what if I’m not organizing the sit-ins. I’m here, and I ain’t going anywhere. And I’m doing more, just being here, than anyone could be out there banging on the drums.

    Well, still, it wouldn’t hurt you to express an opinion every now and then. Come one, look what you did to your pal Casey.

    Oh man, you’re bustin’ me for that?

    The guy was your roommate, for freaks’ sake.

    Look, walking in an important part of the game.

    Uh-huh. And the Laker Girls were the reason the Lakers three-peated. Hey, all you had to say was one word and Finchem would have folded like a pair of deuces staring at straight up.

    Maybe. But remember that hand-dog-bite thing.

    You are the PGA, Tiger. You own them. Without you, they’re just a bunch of flabby white guys waving a stick at a little white ball.

    Not gonna totally deny that. But hey — I’m not beating anyone up.


    I ain’t doing the thug thing. You want your kids too look up at someone? They gonna look at the Answer, who’s looking at hard time? Or they gonna look at me, a guy who drives a Buick, smiles a lot, is nice to the kids?

    Well, I’d rather they look at you.

    Exactly. Hey, I gotta go. Elin says dinner is ready.

    The girl can cook, too?

    Oh yeah. And she cooks with gas.

    Swedish food?

    Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.

    In my dreams, Tiger. Peace to you. Hey once more thing — it’s a red shirt? It’s always looked more maroon-ish to me.

    Get a new television, man. It’s red, trust me on this. Peace to you, too. And send the love to Tony.

    Will do.

    paulf | Some days you’re the windshield.

    @ | Some days you’re the bug.

    panix | ——————————–

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