Transcript: Tiger, I am more prone to be inquisitive to promote discussion. I want to find out what your thinking was, I want to find out what your feelings are, and did you learn anything.

I’m going to take a stab at it and guess that Tiger is thinking “Gosh, it was great to screw all those bimbos and this being found out shit sucks.”

I’m going to rant.

Because I am tired of Tiger apologizing for essentially keeping a harem. You want to screw women and betray your wife, God Bless. We are all adults here. It’s between you and your family and the bought-and-paid-for-women. It’s up to Elin and family to forgive Tiger, to try to salvage what is left. That I get.

But what I don’t get is this Father’s-Voice-From-Beyond-the-Grave while Tiger looks on, positively Bill Clintonian. It’s cinematic and kind of beautiful, and with enough cocktails, I can be talked into feeling some sympathy for the tragedy of it all.

Except.

You’re doing the whole dead father, mournful son bit to sell Nike.

Is it forgiveness that Earl is offering his son?

Or is it a benediction to buy product?

Have some shame, Nike. Just do it, already.

I was talking to mama on the phone the other day when she asked me if I knew the singer Pink. Because I am superhip and phat, I said “but of course!” and I hoped that she didn’t ask me what songs she sang because I had no clue.
“How come her name is Pink?” mama asked. I had no idea, so I explained to mama that sometimes singers take “fun” names like “Madonna”. Except Madonna is really Madonna’s name, but I believe that she understood my point and bowed to my wisdom.
“Well, I know,” mama showed off. This whole thing was a set up because obviously mama just wanted to brag that she knew all about Pink and I didn’t.
“When the Pink was younger, she had black friends and one black friend kept saying that he’s never seen a white woman’s pussy.”
“Please don’t say that word.”
“Ok, one African American friend said that he’s never seen a white woman’s pussy.”
“Not THAT WORD,” I said.
“What? Pussy? Marinka, I thought you were the feminist.”
“I am a feminist, but you are my mother.”
“Yes, so he did not see white pus-, I mean, female genitalia, and he kept saying, Doris, I’ve never seen white female genitalia.”
“Her real name is not Doris.”
“I know, but I don’t know the real name, I am just making the conversation,” mama explained, obviously eager to get on with the story. “So, one day, Doris got tired of his asking, so she lifted up her skirt and he said, ‘oh, pink!’ and that’s how she got her name.”
“…”
“She seems like a nice person. Not super beautiful, but nice looking.”
“…”
“I enjoyed program very much.”
“I’m going to blog about this.”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Mama, you better not be making this up. Did Pink say that herself? What if this story is just a rumor? I don’t want to be embarrassed if I post it and it’s not true.”
“You will probably be embarrass because everyone knows it already and you’re the only one who has without clue,” mama told me.

Parents today. I just don’t know.