Tiger Woods As Mac Daddy Santa Is The Gift America Deserves, But Not The One It Needs Right Now

@TigerWoods via Twitter
@TigerWoods via Twitter

For the past 30 or so years, I've been in possession of and possessed with an amorphous and unwieldy void lurking within me — a bottomless abyss of "eh, I guess" — and I've taken great pains to fulfill it. Sometimes with plans and people. Sometimes with Pittsburgh and really nice pants. Sometimes with pancakes and pussy. But it still continued to persist, taunting me with its presence and refusing to be satiated. And I'd become resigned to the fact that it would always be there; the cartilage to my ligaments; the scar tissue to my success; the extra medium sweater vest and pleats to my Kappa.


Of course, I did not know before yesterday that all it would take to complete me was the image of Tiger Woods as Mac Daddy Santa. And the myriad thoughts spawned by the image of Tiger Woods as Mac Daddy Santa. Including "Is it too late to travel to wherever Tiger Woods is celebrating Christmas because Mac Daddy Santa proved to me that we've all been doing Christmas wrong and I need to step my Christmas game up and learn from Tiger Woods, who clearly has made Christmas his bitch?" And "Why does Mac Daddy Santa look like Hulk Hogan in Blackface?" And "Who exactly is Mac Daddy Santa macking on? Lascivious elves? Slutty reindeer? Or is Mac Daddy Santa basically just the North Pole's version of the Cat Daddy at Essence Festival hollerin at tipsy lawyers at Tank concert afterparties?" And "Why didn't he crop the nipples out?" And "Are the nipples a statement? The new safety pin? Perhaps his way of communicating solidarity with BlackLivesMatter?" And "I'm immediately 100,000% interested in a reality show about this nigga's life." And "Tiger Woods has clearly joined President Obama on the remote and bucolic Nofuckistan Isles. Where fucks are deleted, discarded, dismissed; and, as far as thine eyes can see, thy sees no fucks. Thy entertains no fucks. Thy bears witness to no fucks. And thine diet is filled with delicious gluten and fuck free pastries. Perhaps that's where he's celebrating Christmas."

But then yesterday happened. And that terrible awful void was finally filled. Finally satisfied. Finally gratified. And for that gift, Tiger Woods, I thank you.

Happy Holidays.

Damon Young is the editor-in-chief of VSB, a contributing opinion writer for The New York Times, and the author of What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Blacker (Ecco/HarperCollins)



Amidst the fuckosity called 2016, I forgot to ask…"what did everybody get for Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah?"