The Story That Will Just. Never. Die.

We here at This Way to the Egress have touched on l’affaire de Tiger before (and before!), but Tiger’s back in front of The Big Circus, so…

Forget about his “interview” with The Golf Channel or even his participation in the Masters, the best thing I’ve seen on Tiger apparently being Tiger is this new Nike ad, debuting all over, right now.

Watch it immediately, please:  (Nothing else in your life should matter more!):

Nike’s new Tiger ad (with the late Earl Woods)

It’s still, eerie, amazing and effective, and who says that about advertising?  Whoever came up with this deserves a promotion, complete with a cute call girl of his or her own to call his / her mistress!

But it got us thinking:  What would the script be like if some other famous celebrity hound-dogs made post-scandal commercials with their fathers?

John, I’m not mad.  I’m not.  Sure, I worked in a mill, son.  I don’t know if you’ve ever heard that.  I worked in a mill!  Have you ever worked in a mill?  It’s fucking hard.  Way harder than winning millions as a trial lawyer and then not being able to keep your wee-wee in your trousers while your overweight-enough-so-that-Americans-like-her wife has cancer.  I’d like to see your damn wee-wee in a mill!  A mill, a goddamn mill so you could naïvely bang a hot mess without protection.  I got your two Americas right here:  One worked in a mill, the other’s fucking his “videographer.”  But John, I’m not mad.

Hugh, I’m British.  I’m your anonymous, non-charming British father who’s got “those kind of teeth.”  And somehow you’re the second coming of Cary Grant, the charming rake in all those big studio comedies who thrills the birds and rakes in the bucks.  And I have no idea how you did it, so, cheerio, hat’s off to you, laddie!  But here’s the rub, ay:  Are you out of your freaking mind?  You’re shagging Elizabeth Hurley, she with the fantastic knockers who can also tell a joke, and you go on a bender for a prostitute named…  what?  Honey Green?  Sugar Black?  Oh, right, Divine Brown!  Are you out of your charming British mind, laddie?  I ought to paddywhack your British behind with me wingdoodle.  You’ve gone mad!  Mad!

Billy, I was a good ol’ Southern boy traveling salesman who died before you were born.  Your step-father was an alcoholic, abusive S.O.B.  So you couldn’t pass health care, Billy–  you were still President of the United States!  Shit, boy, I definitely would’a done what you did.


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