So if we are to believe news reports, famed and clearly much-loved golfer Tiger Woods has entered into sexual rehabilitation treatment.
I assume that means Tiger is going to Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting, and I suppose the dialogue goes something like this:
Tiger: “Hi. I’m Tiger, and I’m a sex addict.”
Fellow sex addicts in unison: “Hi, Tiger.”
Perhaps sitting sullenly before him in metal folding chairs are former presidential candidate John Edwards, South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford, former N.Y. Gov. Eliot Spitzer, former “PTL Club” leader Jim Bakker and perhaps the most famous philanderer of all, former President Bill Clinton.
It’s surely a warm and accepting group. They probably are quite empathetic toward one another, undoubtedly supportive as they struggle with this disease that has disrupted their lives.
Look, I know there are countless individuals afflicted with addictions who have benefited from 12-step programs and counseling. That’s a good thing. But I can’t help but think that the only thing most men who cheat on their wives are addicted to is their ego.
Here’s how I hear the dialogue in my mind.
Tiger: “Hi. I’m Tiger, and I’m a jackass.”
Fellow jackasses in unison: “Hi, Tiger.”
That’s right, it’s a Jackasses Anonymous meeting, and it’s just one step in the Jackass Rehabilitation Treatment program.
Now there’s some wreckage that some tawdry television producer somewhere certainly could turn into a hit reality TV show.
Who wins Member of the Month in that club?
Is it Sanford, who apparently didn’t think it would be noticed if the governor disappeared for a week or so in order to have a fling with his mistress in Argentina? Or Spitzer, the uptight governor of New York who thought perhaps no one would ever find out that he was “Client No. 9” of a high-priced prostitution ring?
Bakker was the ultrarich leader of the American televangelist show “The PTL Club” and made his fortune preaching morals, ethics and religious accountability to his loyal and generous followers. He certainly could not be expected to resist that sexy church clerk Jessica Hahn, though.
Cripes, Sen. Edwards was running for president of the United States when he cheated on his wife, who was battling breast cancer and raising the couple’s young children at the time.
And then of course there is Bill “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” Clinton, who was the leader of the free world but certainly could not be expected to turn his back on an enthusiastic young intern wearing a blue dress and a thong.
So now I’m picturing Joe Schmoe, an average sort of guy from, shall we say, Levant. Joe is 50-something and quite charmed by his own delightful sense of humor and just a bit bored with the whole mundane wife-and-kids scene that greets him at home every night.
Joe cheats. Joe gets caught.
Joe is sitting on the faded couch in his living room with his head hung low while his wife paces before him.
Joe’s mind darts frantically as his wife confronts him with his infidelity.
With little wiggle room, Joe settles on this.
“It’s not you, honey. I love you. I love the kids. I love this life we’ve built. It’s me. I’ve talked to some people about this, and we’re all pretty sure that unfortunately I have a sexual addiction problem.
“I need help. I need your help and your support in order to deal with this terrible, terrible disease,”
I’m not sure whether Joe plays golf or not, but in every house there is a broom, and a broom can certainly do as much damage as a golf club, and the window of a four-wheel-drive pickup busts just as easily as one in a Cadillac SUV.
Now I see Joe in a church basement, surrounded by others like himself. The smell of coffee wafts through the cheaply carpeted room.
Joe: “Hi. I’m Joe, and I’m a jackass.”
Fellow jackasses in unison: “Hi, Joe.”