In these troubled times, with a collapsing global economy, a foundering health care system, and endless political infighting in Washington, it can be easy to forget that there's still a celebrity sex addict out there who needs our help.
Don't forget about Tiger. Please.
For awhile, when nothing else was going on, the media was there to support Tiger, with a constant 24/7 battering of thoughtful public reminders of his infidelity. It took awhile, but it finally drove him out of Hooters employee parking lots and into that Mississippi sex spa, where he can at last receive the help he needs, at the hands of blisteringly hot but fully trained sex nurses, or whatever it is they have.
But the crisis isn't over, people!
Judging from the sheer volume of Tiger's "fidelity time outs," we can't expect the man to go cold turkey...not with all those southern belles tending to him in Mississippi. No, as any reforming sex addict (one is never "cured") can tell you, there are going to be relapses...lots and lots of relapses. Sometimes with multiple partners, in unsanitary hot tubs...wherever the junkie can get his fix. That's just reality. And I want to be there to help.
Well, not ME, of course...wouldn't THAT be gay. No, I mean my wife. I haven't actually ASKED her yet, but I'm pretty sure she'd be cool with it. We have our little pre-approved "celebrity exceptions," and I would happily add Tiger as a bonus exception. Because, frankly, we need the money. Journalism doesn't exactly pay the bills these days, and even after Tiger's messy divorce, and the sex clinic fees, and the greens fees at the sex clinic, and so on, there's still bound to be plenty of spare bales of money lying around. If the going price for shutting up about a wild midnight romp in our den has declined to say a half million dollars, that's still real money, and we would accept it. I think. I'll ask my wife.
Tiger, if you're listening, hit me up in the comments section here, and let's devise a paparazzi-proof plan for you to pleasure my wife. And bring your clubs; maybe over breakfast you can give me some tips my swing. It's only fair! (But doesn't absolve you of your financial responsibility to do right by me and my family, after the deep and lasting emotional pain you will hopefully have inflicted.)
Somewhere in the Mississippi flats, the world's greatest golfer is jonesing for sex, in a cold sweat, and maybe a masseuse's towel. You and I can't begin to imagine what hardcore sex addiction is like, so don't even try. Let's just be there to help.
Tiger, don't be afraid. My wife is here for you. (I'm pretty sure; I still have to check.)
Make the call.