Tiger Woods Wrote Us a Letter

Despite being an emotionless robot built only for golf and making sure hooker vaginas function properly, Tiger Woods wrote an essay for the latest issue of Newsweek where he pretends he cooks his children dinner, and, for the first time ever, calls his accusers liars but clearly doesn’t mean it because, let’s not kid ourselves, he banged them:

Slowly, I’m regaining the balance that I’d lost. My healing process is far from complete, but I am beginning to appreciate things I had overlooked before. I’m learning that some victories can mean smiles, not trophies, and that life’s most ordinary events can bring joy. Giving my son, Charlie, a bath, for example, beats chipping another bucket of balls. Making mac and cheese for him and his sister, Sam, is better than dining in any restaurant. Sharing a laugh watching cartoons or reading a book beats channel-surfing alone. Some nights now, it’s just me and the kids, an experience that’s both trying and rewarding. Probably like the experience a lot of families have every evening around the world.
… I have a lasting gratitude to those who stood by me in ways large and small. Unfortunately, opportunists are trying still to cash in on my troubles, no matter how irresponsible or ridiculous their claims may be. In many cases, I’ve never even met these people. But there’s no way I can dispute each lie without provoking more. Besides, everyone has probably heard more than they ever wanted to about my private life.

Wow. Am I the only one who interpreted that last line as, “You ain’t even found them dead bitches yet?” Good God. Also, does anyone honestly believe Tiger Woods cooks his children mac and cheese? A.) Those kids probably eat caviar served from the stuffed head of an albino tiger. B.) Tiger Woods didn’t excel at golf just to sit around slaving over a stove like Mammy from Gone With the Wind. That’s racism. And C.) If his kids seriously did ask him to cook, he’d just stand there motionless because everyone knows he recharges his power core at five p.m. every night.

CHARLIE: Mommy, why does daddy beep and sometimes say, “Maximum Hooker Penetration at 75%.”
ELIN: …. Here’s a gold brick. Go play with your sister.
CHARLIE: But I wanted a speedboat.
ELIN: Scoot!

Photo: Getty