Society at large loves a big juicy story. They especially love one chock fill of flavor like one of those Freshen' Up chewing gums. The Tiger Woods car crash rings a gong of humanity almost American Beauty-style.
We will never quite know what happened in what were clearly a wife and husband Thanksgiving row and peel-out of his Cadillac Escalade in anger/frustration/chased by a blond waif possibly bearing one of his clubs as he careens into a fire hydrant.
The image of this might be far better than his stiff visage that adorns ads, posters, commercials and other ilk.
The big loser in all this is Buick, who for all their redesigns and reworks, still can't get their spokesman to actually use the damn thing. Instead he peels off, probably using half a tank of gas to dent a fire hydrant?
Cadillac should be another loser. If I am going to use the rich's version of a gas guzzling bus, I should be able to shear away fire hydrants Grand Theft Auto style.
Another big loser, the Going Green campaign, as he wrecked a car that goes through gas as he might have gone through mistresses if we believe the reports.
The tragicomedy that is in the wreckage is popcorn worthy as a tale snakes forward of someone who avoided attention, and in so, made the fall and reverberations that more of a spectacle to which we are drawn to like a moth to a flame.
As women peek out of the woodwork like termites, it shows the flaws within the grains of the constructs we build around our sports heroes. Then, invariably, when they fall, we have built them a noose to hang from as we watch our handiwork.
Nobody begrudges Tiger Woods for his weaknesses, all too human and frequent these days as the fabric of fame, fortune and hero worship. It is a frequent twist of that neat bow of public relations and public image to strangle before our eyes.
But don't feel bad for old Tiger. This Mack daddy used his fame, fortune and notoriety to live the good life. As roosters come home to roost now, the Edgar Allen Poe blade of the pendulum that cuts even deeper the higher and infallible you stand. Right now, he's getting cut to pieces.
This is not a tale of race, injustice or media. This is a tale of someone who used public relations to cultivate an image and protection, cloaked in lies, to hide a far different interior. A beast that lies within all of us might have been living large, who might have used his private jet to make the owners of Bang Bus jealous.
No, I don't really feel bad for the Tiger. I feel more for the trophy wife who churned out two kids, one just recently, who might have tried to step on his pimp hand, while daring to "ruin Thanksgiving."
We have to wonder what the encore for Xmas might be. Beaten by branches of the Xmas tree and wrapped in a bow? Peeling of in a hastily-repaired tank of a car, dragging along Xmas lights as he slams into several neighborhood mailboxes? Maybe Tiger can get mercilessly tasered in the crotch by a poorly chosen gift for his wife on Xmas morning. That would be quite sequel.
Let's be honest, all these are possible now. A public relation firm is scrambling, working furiously overtime hours, to stave each blond air head floozy that might have had a piece of the Tiger. If they truly wanted to make money and lemonade from all this, Tiger Woods would come out with a new cologne for the holidays called Libido. It would defeat Anchorman's legendary Sex Panther hands-down.
Tiger Woods lives the dream. Prodigious talent and making a mark in a sport that hasn't really have had a true athlete. But alongside, here is the 21st century athlete public relations nightmare as the tabloids leap onto the statue presentation to pull away the man beneath. In this case, they might be doing a service. Tiger's ability to avoid scrutiny is almost more effective than his golf playing, until his johnson might have landed him in one hell of a sand trap.
The spin of damage control might re-shellac the facade eventually, but for now we all see the real Tiger. Just another poor palooka that made a mess.