Saturday, February 27, 2010
I’m here with Charley Woods, cousin, chauffeur, and backup caddie for renowned golfer Tigger Woods …
And author of the new tell-all book, 18 Holes: The Untold Story of Power, Privilege, and Pigmentation.
So pleased to have you on the program.
Glad to be here, Connie.
Critics are already slamming your book, saying it attempts to excuse the reprehensible extramarital affairs of your cousin, Tigger. Your response?
It’s one thing to sit at home and scrutinize Tigger, Connie. Its quite another when you’re being splashed with Cristal being popped in your own vehicle, peeling away from massage parlors at 4am, and swabbing body butter off the hood and windshield of your own limo.
As my book explains, it all began after a friendly round of golf in the town of Pinehurst, North Carolina.
[Tigger and his buddies would sometimes like to “slum it,” exploring the various local watering holes beyond the property of the country club.]
[But I’d never seen a bar quite as rednecky as this one.]
Hold yer horses! Let me see some IDs.
OK, Dick and Skip, you’re good to go. But this “Tigger” fella—
What’s the problem?
Y’ got brown eyes … No brown eyes allowed here!
But I, too, have brown eyes.
Do y’ now? … Hmm, well says here Tigger was born late December … No Capricorns allowed!
But there’s a black velvet portrait of Jesus Christ hanging right behind the bar, inside.
Is ‘ere now? … Hmm, well tell me one clear and obvious distinction between you two and that one there in the back.
… His, uh, argyle sweater vest has purple in its pattern whereas ours do not??
Good enough … No purple sweaters allowed!
Sorry about that Tig.
Yeah, next time, we’ll call ahead for the dress code … Catch you on the flip side, dude.
I can just take it off—
No black people stripping on the premises is allowed!!
No, but see, I’m not black … I’m “Cablacasian”—
Alone, dejected, Tigger found comfort in his last remaining resource for solace.
The arms of his wife?
Well, no … uh …
A church? A Buddhist temple?
Not exactly …
A crisis hotline? A late-night emergency phone call to his therapist?
No … a, uh … a strip club.
♬♪ Call me Mr. Flintstone. I can make your "bed rock," giiiiirl!! ♬♪
Please, Tigger, baby … Let’s head back to the Champagne Room for a “private dance.”
Pebbles, please … I can’t. You know I’m married.
Absolutely not! My family, friends, and fans would all be devastated if they were to ever find out—end of discussion!
[And that’s where Tigger met Lycan T. Ropy.]
Founder and CEO of LunarSwing, Inc. ... Pleasure to meet you.
I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of—
No one has. That’s why I want you, Mr. Woods, to endorse my product.
Mr. Ropy … I earn hundreds of millions of dollars annually from major corporate sponsors. What can some no-name sports supplement company offer me that I don’t already have?
We, Mr. Woods, can take your game—in golf, in life—to the next level.
[And so began my and Tigger’s weekly trips to LunarSwing Headquarters for Tigger’s periodic “enhancements.”]
What occurred behind those solemn concrete walls, however, I have no idea.
But Tigger Woods has vehemently denied using performance-enhancing drugs.
That may well be true, Connie …
[For what I witnessed the night following his fourth “enhancement,” I don’t believe any drug on Earth could cause.]
Charley, get me outta here, man! I’m done with this LunarSwing, Inc. BS.
Are the enhancements not improving your golf swing, Tig?
Not one bit … Just drive, Charley. Take me outta here. Take me anywhere.
Well, sit back, relax, and pop a cold one from the mini-fridge, cousin.
[And take in the night sky through the moon roof … I’m driving you home.]
♬♪Billie Jean is not my lover … She’s just a girl who— ♬♪
… Yo, Tig … You OK back there?
… Hmph, must be a flat tire. Better check it.
Meanwhile, in the back of the limo
Hmph, tires were all fine.
♬♪ But the kiiiiid is not my son … No-no-no-no, No No No!! ♬♪
Kschht! [Charley, take me to the Southern Cross Saloon.] Kschht!
But, uh, Tig … The bouncer wouldn’t let you in last time, remember?
[Kschtt!] He dare not make the same mistake this time. [Kschtt!]
Who’s this rolling up in a limo?
Tigger, we’re here—
Got a problem, Charley?
Uh … no … No, Mr. Woods.
Well, then, outta my way! It's time to get my club on!
Psshaw! “Brother” … Hardly.
Then something miraculous happened, something Tigger had never experienced in a public venue.
[Rather than being overtly conspicuous— the token black man in the largely white milieu, or the singular well-to-do black male in the largely black female milieu—Tigger was, for the first time in his life, anonymous!]
Wanna ride the bull, stranger?
Well, come on! Let’s go!
Wait a sec … What’s your name?
Your name … I'm Tigg—
Whoa, whoa, whoa, fella … Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Look, I may stalk over to you in some random bar and hit on you, grind against you salaciously on the mechanical bull, and then pass out in your limo after flirting and taking shots with you the entire of the night.
But let’s not get too personal with names until we’ve gotten that far, at least.
… Okie dokie.
[Tigger rode this feeling, this anonymity, and it led him to places he would have never otherwise ventured.]
[Gave him access to experiences he could have never otherwise had.]
What have I done?
Yawn … Tiggy, I had the strangest nightmare … Dreamt I was running through a jungle, being chased by a big, black beast!
What have I done?
Yawn … Tiggy?
So you’re pinning Tigger’s first instance of infidelity on the machinations of corporate America???
No I’m pinning it on the feelings of power and privilege granted Tigger by the experience of being white in America for the very first time.
It was far more powerful than a drug and far more real than any access Tigger’s celebrity had given him before. And to get it, he never once had to swing a club, rub elbows with the upper crust, or denounce his race.
He merely had to be white.
Exactly … But even his newfound ability to cross the color line can’t account for what Tigger would do next.
To be continued in 2 weeks!!
New comic next week!