I find I am, almost against my will, utterly delighted by the Tiger Woods crash-and-burn who-woulda-thunk slut-of-the-week pornstars-n-skanks flameout shockfest circus funhouse megaspectacle.
It was not a quick realization. Fact is, I have never once cared the slightest bit about Tiger Woods or anything he has ever done, represented, embodied. I have zero interest in golf, don't care for insipid multimillionaire celebrity endorsements, gated Florida mansions or blinged-out Cadillac Escalades, and I have never once found myself remotely enchanted or bedazzled by anything Woods has said or done, largely due to the fact he doesn't appear to have much of a discernible personality or any spiritual fire to speak of, and his sole accomplishment seems to be making a mountain of cash by playing one of the world's most boring, nonathletic sports exceptionally well.
But never mind any of that now. Tiger has transformed. Tiger has transcended. He is right now entering another glorious, rarefied realm, a unique stratum of American iconography, that of the fallen hero, the broken god, the disgraced saint soon be abhorred and mocked by millions, only to be -- and you may take my word for this right now -- loved and adored again in about, oh, I'd say two years and change. Maybe less. Just you watch.
It's the same old story, really. Woods is now in the midst of nothing less than a classic, time-honored pattern that just might be one of our nation's finest, most insidious inventions of all time.
Do you know this pattern? I bet you do. It's the same one that's been followed, with varying success, by all sorts of rock stars, supermodels, actors, athletes, pastors and politicians since George Washington was caught indulging his gay fetishes in an opium den in Paris....
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