Tiger Woods’s virile member, and manpurses.
TIGER: golf geek. The guy has geekface the way Jay Cutler is said to have jerkface. Iffen youse is SURPISED that he started making up for lost time when he got rich, then youse knows so little about human nature that I don’t think it’s safe for the rest of us to allow your ass to go out in public.
Tiger reminds me of a guy I worked with in high school. He wore a fucking PING cap to work every day. I would have never even have been cursed with the knowledge of what PING is if he hadn’t gone on about it at nauseating length (“I betcha don’t know what my hat means? It’s the greatest golf gear company in the whole, wide, etcetera, etcetera, Ann has long stopped listening…”). He wanted to date me. I would have rather dated the damn cap — at least it was succinct. I ran into him years later and he had lost about fifty pounds. (Maybe he took up speed golfing.) He gave me this smug look as though to say, ha ha, now that I am lithe, you shall be mine! He still had the fucking hat on. I heard my mom calling. I’ve never seen anybody look so confused.
Are YOU still confused? About Tiger, I mean. Female humans HATE golfers. We have almost no patience for listening to stupid stories about stupid shit that men like to do. I’m a sporty chick; I like games that are cool to watch or play, like football, or the other football, or even tennis. But 99 out of a hundred of us won’t even listen to the two words immediately following ‘golf’…
… unless those words are ‘I’m buying,’ and the girl in question happens to be a particularly shallow specimen. None of Tiger’s coochies exactly have the air of chess champions, n’est-ce pas? But guess what: he didn’t care. He’s a golfer. Taste is clearly not his forte. As hostile as I feel toward golf nerds in general, however, I’m starting to feel sorry for the guy. He’s only been doing what every other hopeless dork would have done.
MANPURSE: stop shaming them, please, before they change their minds. I have a hunch that I speak for every woman who has ever been stuck out in public with a male friend or relative who keeps buying/collecting/hunting/gathering shit and cramming it into her bag. “Sweetheart, can I put my sunglasses in there? Baby doll, surely you won’t mind if I ask them to box up my garlic-rich leftovers and shove them in your new leather Chanel bag. My arms hurt, can I put my new weight set in your tulle knapsack? Uh, and sugar angel… is there still room for these golf clubs?”
Not only does this annoy me so much my teeth hurt, it doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Statistical and anecdotal evidence alike point to the mang’s tendency to have larger biceps than his shorter half; sure, women are supposed to have superior lower body strength, but when was the last time you saw a human carrying a purse in its feet? Boys, for the love of not getting your face smashed, ignore the haters. Manpurses are SO virile — I think I’m going to burst when I see you valiantly hauling your own horseshit around in that droll Vuitton case. It almost makes up for your PING tattoo.