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Straight No Chaser: Symbolic Value
Normal 0DENVER (BASN) — Tiger’s re-emerging from the depths of hell, where he was bound and gaged . . . and liked it. But nonetheless, stepping back onto the world stage, at the Master’s Augusta Tournament, or, is that the Augusta Masters Tourney?
Either way, it’s still the formal residence of aristocratic Redneck golfing culture. Still today, nobody with a viginia can be a memeber, and the colored tokens remain just that . . . tokens. Let me put this – where it’s at . . .
The Augusta National Golf Club is a battleground in the ongoing American cultural war, a spot where the U.S. civil cold war between Blacks and whites, haves and have-nots’, landlords and landless, men and women – hit’s a pinnacle.
If you pull away the top-layer, look a little deeper . . . for those of us who understand the gravity of the situation . . . Augusta’s symbolic of the battle for the hearts and minds of America, who and exactly what America’s going to be in this century ahead of us.
Quite correctly, in this, the so-called land-of-equality, there’s an assualt on White male privilege being waged, and the Augusta National Golf Club represents a bastion of such audacious power.
Woods, too confessed the last few times he won the Masters to acknowledge this reality – and the social significance of the wall he knocked down, Tiger does now, I believe, after the stripping of his “honorary White guy” status, wood’s truly gets what his dominace equates into – the end of an era of duplicity and hypocrisy – which some never wanted to see come.
Tiger winning the Augusta four different occasions, is akin to Obama winning the White House; just as Fuzzy alluded to pork chops and greens being served at Augusta after Tiger’s shattering of the mythical superiority celing, the same sarcastic fear remains about this president. “James Brown’s Soul classic “Say it loud . . .
I’m Black n’ I’m Proud” is blaring out over the Black House patio, where Ribs and chicken are on the grill according to Rush and Glenn Beck.
Allow me to tell you how it really is; Augusta’s a cultural icon, a WASP fortress Sir Tiger penetrated years ago. And no doubt, he’s strategically choosing to come-back here, to make his mark here . . . because bitch-slapping the nay-sayers – the critical press, the golfing industry itself – on this, the sacred hollowed ground of the sport, here at Augusta . . . will be all about spite, all about spitting in the face of those who, I’m sure Tiger deems, to some degree – betrayed him, who didn’t remain silent or neutral, but instead took advantage of a man, who believed himself to be down, by offering hostil commentary and outright damnation.
What’s my name!
What’s my name? Do you know who I am?! I’m Tiger Woods . . . and I am golf!
Gentlemen, without me, ain’t nobody watching these “athletes” walking the greens but their mommas. Tiger has payback on his mind, he feels abandon and betrayed by his adopted people.
Tiger wants to win, in a highly dramatic fashion – which will make Gatorade turn blue with envy. Yet, with Tiger, as with OJ, Vick, Obama or Bonds . . . in the racist, sexist and elitist eye’s of the US court of public opinion – it’s not about the individual, it’s about the symbolic value of the actual conflict, and the fact – when it’s alls said n’ done . . . a Mandingo warrior, defying the established powers that be, will be flaunting his abilities and skills, defying low-expectations and forcing a number of guys who, lets say, had objections and reservations about Tiger’s redefining of this exclusivly country club pastime to eat crow.
Cablinasian crow that is.
The old vanguard, the aristocrats of golf were crossing their clubs, hoping everyday sports-fans were outraged and enraged, enough to stone Woods, demand he never play the game of golf again – because, after all – he did betray the sacred trust White America placed him.
Tiger was not suppose to have such a sexual appitite for White Women – one not seen since Jack Johnson. No, he was suppose to “behave himself” – only one White woman was to be tarnished n’ tainted, sacrificed to the chocolate love gods, that should have been sufficent, but no Tiger’s got a Tiger in both his tank and his trousers, an unquenchable thurst for snow bunnies.
So, for Woods’ to come back onto the golf scene . . . via kicking down the front door of the Master’s plantation big-house . . . ., bitch slappin’ Whitey into next week, you can bet your last dollar – it’s to send a message . . . . What’s my name?!
Granted yes, that’s a tad over the top . . . but completedly accurate.
Hey, lets not pull any punches here, especially for the sake of being politically correct and sparing a few fragile feelings – by Woods holding his coming out party at the Augusta, that sends a clear message to the press, the fans, the sponsors and the Grand Poo Pahs who run the PGA tour – yeah, I slept with your daughter, your wife and your buddies daughter, and sure, I treated them like trash, and of course that inflamed a number of good ole boys that I’d dare have the audacity to flaunt my sexual prowness . . . but too bad, deal with it.
I’m baaaccckkk .
. . !