[Proclamation from the King: I thought this was lost last week, but I found it. I think most of you are sick of hearing about Tiger Woods and I’m bored with writing about it, but I cobbled together one final parting shot, equal parts misogyny and the deathly chill of reason. I urge you to not read this piece or watch this video, but if you must soldier on, I applaud you. I actually cleaned it up substantially, if that helps.]

So in the midst of all that is false and ugly about the Tiger Woods saga, you have to believe one thing about this man: His heart is not content with being Pig Woods. He really wants to be the Tiger we once thought we knew and loved. And you have to love a guy -- at least a little -- for that. –Maggie  Gallagher, TownHall, 2.24.10 

XXXX joined the group Why buy the PIG when all you get is a little sausage?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: A mega-wealthy, globally-recognizable athlete screws around on his wife. Punchline? No, there’s no punchline, dumbass. Ol’boy worked his whole life, lit up his sport like the Fort Sumter, reset records  for decades to come, and then …. Dumbass got married to a cutie blonde thing. Once he got married, the story changed, and it culminated with her clubbing him with a … club. And people cheered. They said ‘you go girl…’ and suddenly, the golfer I never considered who plies a sport I don’t care for was humanized.

Everyone is tough in retrospect, tru-dat, but I’d like to think my response would’ve been: “Hit me again, I double-dog dare ya!”

Ego aside, I ask you this: If we agree that the XX is the weaker gender, and if we agree that it is wrong to hit a woman, what do we say when we’re passed out on … Ambien …. and our crazy Nordic bitch starts pounding on us with a 9-iron?

Fore!

Allow me to come out guns blazing and induce a gut-check fact: a) Elin Woods is not a victim and b) misandry is the American cultural norm that flies under the PC radar. As this will be taken the wrong way, I will re-emphasize – the only reason that she’s staying with Tiger Woods is because he can grant her lots of really pretty shiny things. There’s a word for women who spend time with men who can and will buy them shiny things, but I’ll not mention it.

However, like raccoons, Elin Woods likes pretty, shiny things.

The first quote above comes from a writer at the Conservative site TownHall, the former a writer who I tend to like on a site I tend to enjoy; the second was a group joined by a disgruntled XY friend on Facebook.

I’ll say it now, and in plain English: if you refer to men as pigs, then you’re a dirty whore.

There, I said it. Oh, and you’re sort of not really original, either.

To repeat: If you are a disgruntled woman and refer to men as pigs, you are a dirty whore. Yes, if you equate men of any kind with swine, you are a simpleton, the kind of woman who puts more thought into her nail polish than why your fella is screwing everything that moves. The best part of this? You already know it.

I don’t eat pork. I’ve lectured about this on this site repeatedly, but I don’t eat the flesh of a pig. Why not? A few reasons, none of them having to do with Judaism or Islam.

First, pigs are human-like. Not in that way that dogs and cats can be human-like, but in that really creepy way where, if you watch them long enough, pigs exhibit many of the qualities of Man. Like chimpanzees, if you give a pig enough rope, he’ll figure out how the hell to get out of his situation. Although this isn’t the end-all-be-all of the argument, it wasn’t an accident that George Orwell chose pigs to be the rulers of Animal Farm.

Second, the pig has light pink flesh – just like a human – and like humans, the pig, when bored, reverts to squalor.

Third – and I don’t like this, but it is what it is – pigs organize.

I don’t know that I buy it, but it’s said that among humans who’ve had to eat other humans in desperate survival scenarios, they tend to taste like pork.

In Pulp Fiction Jules makes the argument that pigs “eat and root in shit,” which is a valid observation, and I’ve always countered this by saying that you pack enough humans in a confined area for an extended period of time, they too will eat and root in shit, except for the rooting part, because clearly humans don’t root.

I’ll take Jules’s observation a step farther, though – give one pig one acre with 20 square-feet of shelter, and you will see a pen so organized it will defy the word creepy. Yes, pigs love to wallow because they are natural-born hedonists. Just as bears love beer and dancing, pigs love to wallow. But give them some space, and after the sty-effect, you will find a pen that is … strange.

When women refer to men as pigs, we laugh. When I say we, I mean this porcine mouth-breather.

It’s a canard from the 1970s, but the feminist reaction to masculine behavior with the epithet “pig” is – rather, has – become so ingrained in the culture it’s comical. That a friend of mine on Facebook joined a group not-so-cleverly inverting the notion of ‘why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?’ is beside the point. When I hear men referred to as pigs, I laugh, as I know it’s the desperate mating call of a once prim and proper sow now facing the ravages of gravity.

Why are we pigs? Is it because we root out truffles? Is it because we snort? Is it because we mate with sows?

When I think of men as pigs, I think of “Cagney and Lacey” or at least, er, “Kate and Allie,” but the larger point is I hear unfuckable women saying untenable things. It’s not that they’re bad or misguided or wrong, they’re just silly, in the same way observing a fish needing a bicycle is … odd. I hear them bleat stereotypes and I’ve no need to shake or slap them – I laugh at them.

Of course, it does not and never will work like that. Tiger “Pig” Woods is now popularly evil and an off-Broadway hack’s bread and butter because he happens to have a cock dangling between his legs. You know this, I know this, and this is how it is.

We know what the pig implication is: sloppy, dirty, sub-human, and based in filth. If that is your view of men, then I weep for your procreative, carnal future and whatever poor sap may find himself in the blinding canard of your desperation.