The never-ending news coverage of Tiger Woods’ car accident continues, and continues, and continues—for one reason.
Sordidness.
In other words, people want to know—are dying to know—whether Woods was cheating on his wife, and with whom (Rachel Uchitel? J.R. Richard? My uncle?). They don’t care about the car accident; about poor driving; about broken windows and shattered headlights and all the jazzy jazz that accompanies everyday crashes.
No, they care about the sex. Tiger Woods having sex with—who?
I, for one, don’t care. At all. I loathe these stories. I never pay attention, even when they’re all but force fed to the masses. Anna Nicole Smith? Have no clue about the details. Never listened. Britney Spears-K-Fed? Have no clue about the details. Never listened.
This stuff just isn’t my thing.
