Posted by: JDM..... | February 8, 2010

Tiger’s woodie… 

…or “addiction, my sweet ass!”

Life can teach one some valuable lessons if adequate attention is paid to the messages triggered by unacceptable behaviors, but that’s where the experts disagree about what should earn a bout with a 2 x 4 and what should trigger a free pass in the front door and quickly out the back of the nearest “cover-my-ass” therapy session.

The whole thing gets right down to my favorite pissing post, the use and misuse of language, which may seem a stretch for one who has had a hard time spanning the territory between an initial capital letter and the inevitable period without launching at least one “F” word or a derivative thereof. Maybe I’m addicted to the “F” word.

Let’s go with that, as it relates to the thought drag-racing through my mind at the moment. I was thinking of the recent story about Tiger Woods leaving “rehab” where he evidently has completed the process of exchanging a considerable amount of cash for the opportunity to say the right things at the right time to the right people and get a little gilded and engraved 8 x 10 wall-hanger signed by folks with a lot of initials after their names awarding the horny athlete a “gimme” for diddling umpteen critters of the female persuasion besides his wife. I’m not sure whether they were equally horny, but I suspect they were far more interested in his wallet than his woodie. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. It’s a “pass” for Tiger because the next time he gets diverted through the wrong doorway to drop his drawers he can call it a “relapse” instead of an intentional and Narcissistic decision. Sex addiction, my ass.

A little background might serve here. I spent a quarter of a century spelunking through the netherworlds of chemical dependency and mental health, and sort of developed a working concept of the medical model of addiction and how behavioral science fits into the picture. It wasn’t until several years after the whole idea of treating substance dependency medically began to achieve some credibility that “Rehabs” and “Programs” began to pop up wherever an anti-social behavior and a government grant could be found within kissing distance of each other.

I earned my degree in Psychology with a minor in Sociology, which means I gained a rudimentary understanding of the workings of the central nervous system and human behavior before I spent 24 years or so on the front lines learning everything I really needed to know from people with terminal livers or uninvited voices. I learned early on to tell the difference between someone with a problem and someone who just wanted to blow smoke up the system’s ass and look cute for a probation officer.

In my not-so-humble opinion, Tiger’s only “problem” is he developed the perfectly normal adult human awareness that sexual activity feels good, but never quite gathered the character or maturity to honor his commitment and responsibilities to his wife instead of just following his dick around like a junk yard dog.

There may be some psychiatric exceptions, but what the public has been taught to accept as “sexual addiction” is not addiction in the medical sense, and the hijacking of the term to explain away behavioral anomalies does both the perpetrators and those who have bona fide chemical dependencies a great disservice. There is a great difference between the man who throws down a pint of vodka for breakfast so he won’t go into withdrawal, not to be confused with the “hangover”, and the man who waves his pecker around indiscriminately because it gives him an adrenaline rush and it feels good.

Alcohol withdrawal is a medical emergency and can be fatal. “Jonesing” from lack of heroin or some other highly “addictive” drug is an intolerable, agonizing, condition. Going without an illicit sexual adventure is no more related to addiction that driving a car is related to making a sandwich.

If I recall, the whole thing came to a head for Tiger the night his wife was chasing him down the driveway with a nine iron and he rammed his love-buggy into a neighbor’s tree. The police, the media, and rehab recruiters should have stayed the hell out of the way.

Maybe Mrs. Woods would have shot a birdie with his coconut and Tiger might have gotten the message.


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