What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: Being Tiger Woods

April 09, 2010

Being Tiger Woods

A recurring (and long-dormant) series of multiple-choice questions to test your pop-culture knowledge.

What was Tiger Woods thinking when this banner flew over the golf tournament in which he was competing?

a. That's pretty fucking hilarious, but I'm still gonna have that douche bag shot in his douche hole.
b. God, how many fake, dishonest apologies do I have to give before people stop caring where I stick my hog?
c. This is just another in a long series of public humiliations that have hurt my family, damaged my personal reputation, and cost me millions of dollars in endorsements. But you know what? It was fucking worth it.
d. All things appear and disappear because of the concurrence of causes and conditions. Nothing ever exists entirely alone. Everything is in relation to everything else... Oh shit, I'm hard!
e. Yeah, well, that guy won't think it's so funny when I have my dick so far up his... Goddammit, I've gotta stop thinking like this!

Answer: All of the above

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A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.