Celebrity sex cures
People are still asking, “How could they do it? How could Tiger cheat on his beautiful Elin, and how could Jesse cheat on the superb Sandra?” The indisputable answer is revealed to us via the following classic tawdry gag (which I run here without softening the punchline, because it ruins the joke): “What six things does a man need to survive on a desert island? One, food. Two, water. Three, shelter. Four, clothing. Five, pussy. Six, strange pussy.” Analysis complete.
So now, Jesse has followed Tiger’s lead, and checked into some clinic in Arizona. Ah yes, the brave new world of sexual rehabilitation, by which one can attempt to patch up one’s public image after it’s exploded into tiny little pieces. Go for it, gentlemen. Tell the doctors and encounter groups your sordid tale of carnage, explain how you had somehow been mentally disconnected from your “right” mind, made wild and unmanageable by the constant brainial wash of sex-triggered dopamine, and that the loving and faithful Dr. Jekyll that was you had been usurped and replaced by a raving Mr. Hyde, an alter ego of raw lust who made off with your niceness, leaving you helpless to fend off the urges that were ignited by the non-stop come-ons hurled at you by this leering gang of trollops, tarts and hussies. And that the one thing you want right now, the only thing you want, is to get back in touch with yourself, to re-unite with that loving part of your mind that wants to be good, stay at home, wash your wife’s feet, and never ever again use words such as “anal,” “doggie,” and “lube” in a text of any kind. You freely admit to your doctors and to us that, yes, this work will never truly be over, that you will have to remain vigilant, constantly measuring yourself day in and day out, never being able to afford another misstep of fidelity, and that you need, indeed you crave, professional help in staying on this most fundamental of wagons. Just give me, you plead, the only thing you want in this world. And that thing would be, of course, a second chance. Please, please and pretty please.
Puh-leeze. Is anybody actually buying into this weakass and blatantly transparent p.r.? The wives sure as hell aren’t. Elin seems to be granting Tiger a little time, but her overall vibe still appears to be that of a woman who would just as soon stuff one of Tiger’s precious hands into a vat of boiling donut grease as let him give her a back rub. Sorry, Tiger. I think Elin will be forever blown away by the sheer volume of strange that you racked, stacked and jacked. And Jesse? This dude’s new first name might as well be Buttered, because his new last name is Toast. Sandra appears to be more pissed than Elin, if that’s possible. Jesse, my man, you’re just wasting time and cash at your Arizona sex clinic. Save that green for your next stop—the skanky bars of Chopperton.