Geelastic
The Venerable Writings of Gavin Shulman: Updated Every Tuesday-ish (gavinshulman@gmail.com)

Yeah, I’ll say it: I feel bad for Tiger. I do. I feel bad for Tiger Woods. I know sympathy in this situation is supposed to go towards the good wife, but I can’t help it. I feel bad for Tiger Woods. Because what is the point of being the greatest (most famous, most successful, most recognizable, richest) athlete in the world, if you can’t fuck whoever the fuck you want to? It’s a sexistential dilemma.

          What is the point of attaining any sort of power, of striving towards any type of achievement, of trying to be the best if you can’t screw some cocktail waitress with big fake cans in a back room? What is the point of success if you can’t suck and sex? There’s a reason we all want to be a superstar athlete, or a big-time celebrity, or a wealthy businessman, and it’s not the nice clothes. It’s the fact that if you get famous enough you’re able to fuck whoever the fuck you want to.

          Right? What else is the point of greatness? Immortality? Good luck with that one. Happiness? We all know what comes with mo money. Fulfillment? And then what, you die? Are we supposed to believe that the only goal of power is power? Power for power’s sake? That’s so puritanical. Power is the ability to point at any person and be able to fuck them. Guy or girl. Doing the pointing or being pointed at. That is the true definition of power. At least according to Freud.

          And I’m not against a loving marriage. I’m not opposed to a committed relationship. I don’t think every Tom, Dick, or Harry should get to bang any Brenda, Jane, or Nancy. I just think that if you are mega-super-famous you should. People always complain that celebrities aren’t held to the same standard. But why should they be? They’re not standard. They don’t have the same standard of living. If I learned that Brad Pitt went to a cookie exchange this weekend, I’d be pretty disappointed. Celebrities should be entitled to live better lives. Or else what do we all have to strive towards?

          If you, reading this, with your beer belly hanging over your belt and your stank breath blowing out of your open mouth fogging up the screen, are thinking maybe I should cheat on my wife, or girlfriend, like Tiger. Maybe I’m entitled to a harem too. Maybe I should be able to fuck whoever the fuck I want to. Close your computer right now and walk over to a mirror. Look in that mirror and thank your lucky stars that any girl is willing to touch your balls. We’re not talking about me and you. We’re talking about Tiger.

          It’s simply un-American to demand monogamy from our celebrities. We are a capitalist society and as such we are taught to grab as much as we can. This includes money, mansions, yachts, sports cars, and yes, women. Monogamy is for the middle class. Adultery is for those who can afford it. What’s the point of all that money if you can only spend it on your wife and kids?

          It’s impossible to have this discussion without thinking of the case of one William Jefferson Clinton. Bill Clinton was the President of the United States. The ruler of the free world. The most powerful man on this planet, and since no one from anywhere else has ever shown up to stake a claim, the most powerful man in the infinite universe. And he’s not allowed to get a hummer from a dumpy intern? Then what’s the point?

          That’s the problem here. If you want to crucify Tiger for attaining the American Dream, then what happiness is there for the rest of us worth pursuing? If Tiger can’t shtup a few lingerie models, Hooters’ girls, and sure, a porn star, then what hope do we all have? If Tiger can’t pounce, then what do we have to run for?

          We love to build our heroes up, and then we love to tear them down. And then you know what you end up with? No heroes. We’re going to build a nation of complacency if we don’t let greatness be rewarded. To the victor goes the spoils, and Tiger’s a winner. If Tiger can’t have it all, than who can? And if the answer is no one, then what’s the point?

          Somewhere out there is a young boy, about 9 or 10, at the driving range, where he goes every day for 5 or 6 hours after school, hitting golf ball after golf ball out into the long, cold distance. He follows the arc of each shot with his hand held in a salute just above his eyebrows. He gazes after the plastic, white ball as it flies high into the sky like a shooting star then heads down toward earth where it will bounce and roll and find its temporary resting place. Ball after ball after ball he hits, dreaming of the future. He dreams of a golf scholarship. Of possibly going pro. Of hoisting a silver trophy atop his head. Of being fitted with a green jacket. He dreams of fame and fortune. He dreams of greatness. He dreams of being the best. Of being Tiger Woods. Of being able to fuck whoever the fuck he wants to.