I am so very passionately serious about all this, I think.

Blobs of intense nothing furiously fidgeting and poking at each other, the pus of universes overflowing into each other matches the depth of curdling oceans of spoiled milk within which floats rafts of unused books splayed out grasping into each other's pages, into each other's authors, long since deceased, the transcriptions of endlessly boring universes committed to the page, luckily not for too much longer, as the rotten milk sponges easily into the bobbing celluloid mass. And you look at the pages, the ones still exposed to the face of the sun and worse still, your gaze, and see what's written, so carefully scribed away and edited and it's all about guy who sells used cars and has emotional problems (autobiographical no doubt) and some sort of political intrigue spy story committing the sort of suspense to its pulp pages no man has ever justifiably experienced.

These are the sorts of documents likely to be perused by meandering alien civilizations and/or future technological societies, and where is the outcry? Who will speak out against the exploding helicopters of our post-millennial cinemas and the contrived responses of the repetitively famous faces interviewed on late night talk shows to the laughter of contrived studio audience audiences?

And where is my personal apology from a sullen Tiger Woods for his apology to his "millions of fans" concerning his undoubtedly magnificent sexual exploits? Where is the spirit of capitalism now, and where are the pulp romance novelists' agents who should absolutely be scraping together some kind of "official tie-in" underwriter sort of deal with the golfing mega-star, the man who better than anyone else can swing a shaft of expensive metal in that special way of his that makes us all gape at the sidelines and which, through a series of incredible historical mistakes originating in Scotland and before that out of the brute strokes of some incredibly bored and dim-witted European cro-magnon, makes him irresistible to women, the mere whistling sound of the swiftly arcing rod producing inestimable erotic potentials to play on the page, the party after the game, the cell-phone call from the wife, "I have to take this." while he stands up and steps into the hall politely nervous while whispering the sustaining lies and misdirection, this drama right alongside the intricate hardcore descriptions of baffling sexual positions involving, you guessed it, golf balls. And those millions of ex-fans that would buy it anyway in disgust, turning the pages with livid and grotesque attraction to all the fabricated, but not necessarily untrue details, which when you think about it may well be the case even if it is just clever speculation, has this guy written anything else? YES, the sequels, YES, the screenplay.

Shame on you, Mr. Woods, think the people waiting in line at the grocery store, when they are at their most judgmental, because for the fourth time in a month of grocery buying they have unwittingly selected the slightly slower cashier and how they wistfully watch the longer lines right beside disappear happily into the parking lot as their attendant hurriedly tries to determine the code for an unlabeled and out-of-season pear, and, giving up, calls for assistance over the intercom like a bereaved captain fervently sending out a last ditch S.O.S. on a radio receiver belching static with the inevitability of death on his lips, this, this is the time when one checks out the slutty colored magazines neatly proffered by the checkout stand with resurrected interest, above the gum for your stinking breath, and sees that glum visage of a tired and poorly photographed Tiger Woods holding his hands over his face and his incredible golf club is nowhere in sight and the wide yellow letters decry his fate as unapologetically as a gravestone,

and has anyone thought how difficult this must be for millionaire Mrs. Woods? I have, on and on. It has become an obsession of mine, just trying to think of how Mrs. Woods has been affected by Tiger's callous acts committed to directly deface our common sense of morality, call me old-fashioned or not. I try to forget it, but when I least expect it, walking out on some errand on a calm day suddenly my pace slackens and I stand in the middle of the street, I know not why, and I clutch at where they told me my heart was and scream silently while I hope that a car will swing by me a little too closely and smash away this syndicated pain into a puddle of blood, misquoted tabloid headlines and not much else.