The Airing of Grievances

Hidden Tiger

By AARON "PUDDY" BOND

What Tiger Woods needs isn’t a reprioritization of his private life. It isn’t knee surgery. It isn’t the requisite time away from the game to come back 100 percent.

It’s Rory McIlroy.

Now hold your horses. It isn’t that Tiger needs McIlroy as a foil to regain his identity as a golfer. Years have passed with several players attempting to prove themselves as a long-term rival to Tiger. Some have fared better than others – Phil Mickelson winning four majors, Padraig Harrington claiming three, Angel Cabrera and Retief Goosen two – but we are mostly left with a stream of one-timers who weren’t trying to do anything differently than everyone else: string together four good rounds at the right time.

McIlroy, for all his talent, is still a one-timer (insert Tiger Woods philandering joke here) and is still three or more majors from meriting the kind of talk that he has generated following his win at Congressional. Rory’s is a great story rife with similarities to Tiger but he has neither the mass appeal nor the mind-blowingly singular skill set that Tiger had relative to his peers following the 1997 Masters.

Rather, what McIlroy stands for is that, for the first time since Tiger uttered “Hello World” prior to the 1996 Greater Milwaukee Open, Woods isn’t the biggest story in professional golf.

Tiger Woods is one of a handful of athletes who have lived their sporting lives with one publicly stated purpose. These athletes didn’t just come out and give 100%; they told you explicitly that they were focused on winning and winning only.
Michael Jordan lived this. Michael Phelps made no secret that he would be disappointed if he didn’t break Mark Spitz’s records. Ty Cobb would injure you to get the upper hand.

NBA Draft 2011

Considering that it's 2011, it would make sense for me to do this thing on Twitter. I know that. Long form writing isn't in vogue, or something. Twitter is in real time. Apple is doing shit in the iCloud. Woo. The future rocks.

But here's the story... I like doing this, so I'm doing it. If the teenagers don't read it, that's great because I hate teenagers and there's a good chance I'm going to make fun of some of them later. It's the NBA Draft. It's Thursday in late June. This is my holiday. I'm at BW3 with my dudes. We live on the west coast, so we had to skip out of work early to catch the start. We're not complaining about that. Beer is flowing hard and admittedly affecting our opinions. The corpses of several hundred comically disfigured chickens are being dipped in boiling oil and sauces for us to consume in the least forgiving manner possible. Diabetes is looming large in the background. I've already mentally made love to two waitresses and, consequently, became annoyed at everything they mentally had to say when we were done. There's a guy sitting at a table near me wearing a shirt I don't understand. My team, the Pacers have the 400th mid-to-late first round pick of their existence and will use it to draft a guy that I will learn to hate by December. I'm holding a pad of paper, because - guess what - I like writing on paper. And Twitter can fellate me because I couldn't fit that paragraph into 140 characters.

Wait... you know that little divot on your scrotum that separates your balls from each other? That little center-sack area with the line on it? Imagine someone sticking their nose into that spot, wincing hard, then crying. Is there a verb for that? Twitter can do whatever that verb is to me. I'm going long form again. Nose-ball-verb my nuts, baby.

Hey Guys!

I was by myself on Father's day while the girls were waiting on me hand and foot and I had a hammock, I had a High Life, I had a laptop, and I had a keen sense of righteousness. Anyway, I decided to try to start a movement to defund the Catholic Church. This probably doesn't resonate with any of the apostate heathens that hang out here, but if you know anyone...spread the word!

I want you to imagine that you could go back in time, roughly a thousand years, to the moment where it was commanded by the Roman Catholic Papacy that the inhabitants of a worthless piece of real estate in the Middle East be exterminated. What if you, even as a member of that faith, had the authority to stop those Crusaders from shedding all of that blood in the name of one Jesus Christ of Nazareth? Would you do it?

Imagine that you could go back five hundred years and put yourself in the torture tribune of a church basement where some lowly heretic’s head was being squeezed in a vice in the name of the Messiah. What if you, even as a member of that faith, had the power to stop that Inquisitor from crushing the skull of that man in order to vindicate the seemingly victimless crime of apostasy? Would you do it?

Imagine that you could go back just about a decade ago, and put yourself in some of these third world African countries where the only thing that people have is their faith. The Roman Catholic Church provided the only source of knowledge of the outside world for these people and what did they do with that power? They had the brilliant idea of preaching to the part of the world where the AIDS virus is most prominent, that condoms not only don’t prevent the spread of that insidious disease but actually assist in spreading it. How many millions of people have died because of that brilliant policy? Make no mistake about it…this was genocide executed perfectly by an organization of old, ignorant virgins, which to this day has not even been apologized for. What if you could have tapped one of those Bishops on the shoulder as they were passing down this bullshit dogma and said, “No…this is wrong…this is enough. It ends here.” What if you had that power, even as a member of that faith? Would you use it?

Really Texas...Really?

I can't with these people. I just can't. I'm still trying to find a way to believe this didn't actually happen but for now, I'll have to deem it to be true. A psychic called the police in Hardin, TX and told them that there's this mass grave with over 50 dead bodies somewhere up on some guy's property. What lead her to this conclusion? She's a fucking psychic!

Now, some people might think that it can't hurt to check it out anyway but those people are wrong and the reason they are wrong is that if cops should lend any credence at all to psychics who see crime scenes, why wouldn't they just hire fucking psychics to be cops? Is it maybe because it's all bullshit? No seriously...not a rhetorical question. I need to know this, now! Of course it gets better because when the local 5-0 arrive, they find some dried up blood on the porch of the house. Uh-oh...

State, local and federal agents combed the area around a rural home after a woman who claimed to be psychic called police twice to report the mass grave at in Hardin, Texas about 50 miles (31 kilometers) northeast of Houston. Soon, local media were reporting that as many as 25 to 30 bodies -- including children -- were found on the rural property.

Yes...the state police wasn't enough. They actually brought in the FB mother fucking I to investigate a god damned psychic tip. So how did the blood get there anyway you might ask?

Bankson told the KHOU-TV that his daughter's ex-boyfriend got drunk and cut his wrists a couple weeks ago and is now in a psychiatric hospital.

Of course. Fucking Texas, man. Steers, queers, and crazy people.

The Morons Are Coming

Just take a quick moment to allow BFF explain the story of Paul revere to us...

Please let this women run for POTUS. I will register as a Republican just so I can vote for her in the primary.