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April 04, 2015
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There is only one thing that is going to help Tiger Woods in his return to the Masters this week, and it's not his golf swing.

by Chad Mountain

I’m a monster golf fan, and even bigger Tiger Woods fan. No other athlete in the history of the Universe has been held to the standard of winning like Tiger. And this week, the Big Cat is returning to the prestigious Augusta National Golf Club for The Masters, which could only mean one thing: HE’S BACK… in the sack, hammering babes, or he’s making a huge mistake in his reemergence and going to lose. Because let’s be honest, Tiger Woods started losing when Tiger Woods stopped fucking.

As a super-fan, I’m hoping that Lindsey Vonn knows this, dug deep over Tiger’s latest hiatus, took the reigns off that thoroughbred and allowed him to let his freak flag fly. That’s the only chance Big Daddy has, to return to glory, and put that little curmudgeon McIlroy to bed.

The truth is, when Tiger lines up over that first greenside chip with a sixty degree wedge in his hand and the world watching, he’s only going to be thinking one of two things. One, “I’m Tiger fucking Woods and I plow babes!” and he’ll stick that stupid white ball inches from the cup, if not, holing it out, followed by an electric fist pump and a majority of the female population sliding off their chairs. Or two, “What happened to my life? I used to tattoo blondes and brunettes, waitresses and porn stars, teenagers and cougars, and this sixty degree feels like I’m holding another man’s cock. All wrong.” And he’ll skull that little dimpled fucker forty yards across the green, resulting in fictional back tightness, a withdrawal, and early retirement.

Hank “Loose Lips” Haney can yap all he wants about how to fix Tiger, but changing his golf swing is not going to help. What will? If the world could stop judging him for being a maniac in the sheets. The guy made a mistake, or three, or a hundred. He’s not perfect. Who is? It’s clear, his Achilles heel is a sweet tooth for sniffing strange after a couple ‘tinis and an Ambien or two, resulting in stepping out on his (ex)wife. Can you blame him? His name is Tiger for fuck sake, and he’s a sexual being. Imagine telling a real Bengal Tiger that he’s only allowed to have one tiger babe the rest of his life. How well would that go? That beast would maul your face, eat your dog, and mount your wife. We got off easy with the real Tiger not being a real tiger. Consider yourself lucky, World. So, let’s remove that iron blanket of judgment and get the Big Cat back on top with a win at Augusta.

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