Hands up if you haven’t slept with Tiger Woods. Anyone? No? That midget S&M polar bear in the corner is your paw up because I can’t quite see back there… oh it is…cool. It’s like that whole “I am Spartacus”, “No, I am Spartacus” thing except instead of Spartacus it’s mistresses and instead of downtrodden slaves making selfless claims it’s former bar hostesses with cash flow problems?
It’s sad to see. The world’s greatest golfer is now relegated to a tabloid whipping boy and faces an alleged mistress count of ten. Now it’s debatable how many of these so-called mistresses are real (as in Tiger actually swung his rod in their direction, put his ball in theirs holes, putted on their green, I could go on…) and how many are fame/money hungry liars in which case their pants should spontaneously combust. But what we do know is that of the ten approximately ten look like they’re rejected Nip Tuck extras.
