-The Ghost of Roy Hobbs
Ladies and Gentlemen of the far-reaching, vast and all-consuming media:
I'm sorry, but I have to come clean: Tiger Woods and I have been having an intimate affair for roughly three years. All of these were years in which he was married and I was aware of it. I'm so ashamed - and trust me, I consider it disgraceful to have sex with a married billionaire - but I cannot hide behind my convenient anonymity any longer.
We had us a lot of sex. He also talked dirty to me from his cell phone to mine.
I know. It's hard to believe. I wouldn't have believed it myself had I not been involved. Him being the most prestigious, well-recognized, and wealthiest professional athlete of all-time and...me. Me being a portly, balding, Caucasian male who makes less than $15K per year and will hold off going to the restroom to avoid climbing those taxing stairs. It all happened so fast. He waltzed into my place of business, a McDonald's in Portageville, Missouri, like he owned the place. Sparks flew, numbers were exchanged and a lot of sex was had in the middle. Now you know the rest of the story.
One time he told me to go to the bathroom and send him a picture of myself doing something sexy, which I did without hesitation and am willing to speak about it with even less hesitation. Woe is me and my shame.
The real irony comes into play around this weekend. I had been mustering up the courage and emotional fortitude to come out to the deserve-to-know public for about a month. Really, about a month. Give or take. I just couldn't believe it when I heard that Tiger (or as I called him "Tigre") got into a violent car accident by backing into a fire hydrant on his property. It looks like he beat me to the punch. He was obviously clearing the air and confessing his love for me, again, the Costanza with the fast-food vocation and lateral lisp, which I'm certain was much to the dismay of his 5'10", perfectly bossomed, beautiful, smiling Swedish model/wife, Elin. All of those things are proven to be crystal clear by the simple, somewhat benign act of dinging up not just any car, but an Escalade.
We're like a modern day Romeo and Juliet, lovers forbidden and shamed from the public arena where we belong. Just like Twilight. Only nothing rated PG-13. Definitely Rated-R bangage.
And just because accredited news sources such as E! News, TMZ.com, CornholeBangers.net and Golf Weekly keep asking me, this isn't about money or fame. This is about truth. And the truth is that Tigre and I were together before he became history's first billion dollar athlete. This started three years ago, before all that billion dollar business and he was just Tiger, the humble, affable, multi-($998)millionaire who stole my heart and me, a person who's only brush with fame was when I made the front page of the Portageville Post for eating 11 live frogs and only bush with opulence was when I won a free apple pie from the Monopoly game at my office.
Opposites must attract, because he carved me like a jack-o-lantern. He also sent me a text with a photo of his can-of-biscuits-sized dingdong.
It'd be silly to say that I'm just one of several who happen to be coming forward. The difference is the truth. I can only speak for myself, and not for those other clearly impoverished and schizophrenic trailer dwellers who claim to have been sexed and sexted by my Tiger. I'm not sure about compensation, it'd be so awful to talk about money at a time when he is so clearly on the verge of breaking down - you know, due to all the clandestine intercourse we've been engaging in behind the globe's back - it just seems wrong. But when that time comes, I'm sure Tiger and I can work out something simple, something that can give me some piece of mind. And by "piece of mind" I mean, a blank check that will grant me the prestige, honor and respect befitting someone with millions and millions of dollars of disposable income.
I'm sorry it all had to come out like this. It seems sordid, but really, it's about love. And not about this being my only shot at making something somewhat meaningful out of what has become the underloved, oversexed, vomit-filled, meth-singed, cross-eyed, rusty abortion that is my day-to-day existence. Not at all.
Tigre, if you read this call me.