Just ask Old Tom Morris, a pioneer of professional golf and 1861 winner of the storied Open Championship. But Old Tom was much more than a tournament contender. Much more indeed. The father of modern greens-keeping, he devised the concept of top-dressing greens: the precursor to the Brazilian wax. A Scottish lady’s man, the likes of which would make Sean Connery genuflect, Tom also introduced the practice of returning to the club house after each nine holes. Tom’s mistress inspired this innovation, after protesting that Tom spent far too much time top-dressing her greens and not nearly enough time fertilizing them.
Old Tom, you see, was determined to butch up a sport demeaned by dandies and duffers. Abandoning the traditional effete uniform of plaid pantaloons and waistcoats, Tom liberated St Andrews Royal and Ancient Golf Club from staid conventions. In his third Open Championship win in 1864, he introduced his fellow athletes to the body thong. Sadly, there are no photographic records of the golfer and caddy sporting the historic, matching tangerine hued mankini ensembles. At the fourteenth hole, overly excited female groupies ambushed the two men, insisting the icon attend to their dew dampened greens. Without so much as a howdoyoudo, the mob stripped Old Tom of his package-enhancing Lycra and took turns waxing the master’s hickory stick. The sport would not see this spirited a female daisy-chain until formation of the LPGA in 1950. Showing true sportsmanship, Tom finished the last three holes to win his third Open Championship, naked as King Lear after a spring shower.
In this first recorded golf-gang-bang, Old Tom’s bravura, finesse and keen fashion sense rehabilitated the much maligned, fey sport. He made virile the impotent game of golf. Were Tom around today, the game’s image would not be assailed with advertising campaigns for penis pills, colonics and man-Spanks. As fate would have it, Old Tom passed the mantle to Young Tom Morris. A sad, sad day for golf as the game of cocksmen. Young Tom, whilst a skilled golfer, was an inattentive greens keeper, boorish monogamist and practicing Protestant. ‘Twas the death knoll for the halcyon days of golf as vajj magnet.
Golf suffered a long, harsh pooty-drought, my dear congregation. The sport hit limp-dick, cardigan-wearing, Buick-driving, beer-belly critical mass.</span> Between fans and pros, it was a tossup who would next stroke out sitting on the john ogling an Architectural Digest, French passementarie centerfold. Golf spent decades as an emasculated, soulless, cursed game. Until the Golf Gods gave us Wood’s Wang. At long last, the LPGA would have some competition for the peekachoo.
Tiger Woods single-phallicly brought the sexy back to golf, the turgid to the turf, the putter to the pooty. Wood’s Wang reunited hickory shaft and gutty balls. Golf’s libidinous savior nearly slept through his own party in an Ambien induced haze, slumbering peacefully alongside his totaled Cadillac SUV. The night Woods was chased from his residence by a club wielding irate Swedish au pair was the game’s proudest moment. It was a watershed event. Golf’s celestial rapture. The epic sucking sound of pudgy plebs exorcised from golf’s greens signaled a new era; one more accommodating to true athletes to real men.
Wang’s women are legion. Boldly reacquainted with their manhood, golf’s acolytes were now emancipated, free to embrace the glory days of Old Tom’s brazen swagger. Flaunting their newfound animus, Tom’s fabled mankini and machismo were again in vogue. First appearing on courses in France, the mankini craze soon enlivened the nouveau riche in Dubai’s most exclusive club houses. Their much neglected phalluses, atrophied from anachronistic, stifling social protocol and propriety, were kissed by warm tendrils of light emanating from the Sun King’s iconic loins; imbued with Tiger Wang’s vitality by proxy. Golfers would no longer feel obliged to attend their brethren’s flagstaff, pooling erectile dysfunction meds over Gin Gimlets. Fortified by Woods glorious womanizing, the “bump and run” would replace the cut shot as stroke of choice.
Accolades multiplied as Woods’ front nine grew to 13. Sure, his flaxen haired Number One did not immediately share in the collective enthusiasm of his parishioners. Familiar with Tiger’s mastery of the Goldie Bounce, fellow golfers knew Wang would shepherd his lass from rough to fairway. As adept a businessman as he is cocksman, Woods soon arrived at a seven figure détente with his tempestuous Ostkaka.
Golf’s devotees marveled as Wang similarly finessed an “understanding” with outspoken mistress, Rachel Uchitel. Tool Academy reality star, Jaimee Grubbs, has proven more challenging to muzzle, coldly dismissing our hero as “horrible in bed” . . . following a thirty-one month fling. Wang Watchers report the verdict is still out on buxom Vegas baby, Kalika Moquin, and the anonymous Orlando-based caddie cougar. Both have lawyered up.
Woods has reportedly hired private investigators to research respective histories of each companion. This was our prodigal son’s one failing. As any veteran pimp will attest, you vet your hoes before dipping the stick. Not after the ice cream starts to melt.
A vocal opponent of classicism in the game, Wang’s magnanimity was on display in the egalitarian spirit with which he welcomed “Trashy Girl,” Jamie Jungers, into his chambers. Jungers had worked as a Trashy Girl for Las Vegas’ Trashy Lingerie for two years prior to offering her services as ball-washer. Trashy supplies women outfitted in lingerie to accompany high-rollers around Sin City during weekend events. Each girl commands fees ranging from $5,000 to $50,000 per weekend. Owner, Mary Loomis-Shrier, would decorate VIP casino rooms with thirty models, give or take, to amuse competing whales. Jungers “gave” and Wang “took.”
Then came the two porn stars. Apparently more than once. Holly Sampson, star of fetish films "Girl on Girl Tickle Wards" & "OMG, Stop Tickling Me!", was a bit long of tooth at thirty-six. Any misgivings amongst golf elders that Wang was settling were allayed by the revelation Sampson had made a cameo in their beloved “Matlock”. When Sampson took respite for her B-12 shots, her understudy, porn Trixie Joslyn James, assumed the helm lubed and loaded.
Wang’s appetite was not sated by cougars, club consorts and porn poonany. There were rumblings in PGA ranks that Tiger’s Wang sought out handsy’s from Britain’s glitterati, including a fetching television presenter skilled in the ten-finger grip.
To coordinate sexytime on this scale demands the stealth efficiency that only an experienced management team can effectively deliver. Tiger Wang knew this. Knew this well. And acted accordingly, assembling a crack team of hoe handlers. Hustling the receptacles to circuit stops. For years these pimp pros kept Wang’s stable under the radar. In so doing, however, they also did a great disservice to the brotherhood, at large, perpetuating the anathema of golf as the somnambulistic sport of walking dead Necromancy gone horribly wrong. The great soul sleep.
Every golfer owes Woods Wang a debt of gratitude; a showing of reverence for infusing the anemic game with a hot shot of man-juice. For bringing scantily clad spectators to a road weary and dated game. For making Old Tom Morris a proud papa. For bringing back the glory that is the mankini!
Yours in Sweet Sin, Mdm Clarice Westwater