Well I just came back from the locker room at the gym and the ladies there were passionate about the Tiger Woods situation. Translation: they wished they were wielding the club.

A few could understand him having a one night stand. Maybe. But Tiger had bedded one mistress for more than two and a half years and others keep popping into the milieu daily.

My he’s an active boy.

But then so was Eliot Spitzer who’d jeered the johns supporting man’s oldest profession. Until someone found his credit card receipts. It seems that Eliot had also discovered that special number.

The Greeks called it pride or hubris.

I call it arrogance and stupidity.

One woman said she just couldn’t believe it.
Why not? How many rich and famous have been caught with their pants circling their ankles. I heard Arnold Palmer was a legend on the course and off, but the reporters only published the good. Today they do both.

It’s the norm, the stuff we count on.

The ladies in the locker room cheered Elin for fighting back. Okay, she didn’t have to beat him, but at least she didn’t stand beside him at a podium, her mouth plastered into a store-bought smile, her eyes glazed and uncomprehending staring at the train wreck she’d married.

Earl Woods spent much of his adult life teaching his son to become a master golfer. But he never figured in the mistresses. Tiger’s life had become a convoluted balancing act.

Maybe Earl should’ve steered his prodigy into juggling instead.