(Note: the following is from the December 1st, 2009 edition of the Washington Post)
By Sally Jenkins
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Recently I was involved in an incident that I don’t wish to speak of, particularly not to pedestrian flatfoots who think they’re entitled to see the inside of my house. This is a private matter, and just because it happened on a public street and I left shattered glass on the ground and a hint of scandal in the air doesn’t give anyone with a badge the right to conduct a routine investigation. I have a personal security staff to deal with things like this, the nature of which I’m not saying, and I don’t see what the law has to do with me anyway, since I live in a gated tax haven. How the police got past the guardhouse is something my people will be looking into.
Nevertheless, I understand the relentless curiosity about me, given my sacrosanct greatness and all I do for the good of humanity, and so I have decided to release a statement, on the advice of my agent, media consultant, personal blogger, sponsor liaison and attorneys. But rather than give this statement to the authorities, who somehow think they have real authority over me, I have decided to post it on my Web site, where the little men with badges can also find news, biographical info, statistics, audio and video clips, photos and signature merchandise such as $75 drop-needle polo shirts and washable wool sweater vests, as well as framed art, naturally of me.
Posting this statement is a grand concession, given my unique status, which let’s face it amounts to almost a kind of separate state power. That’s how different I am from the common people. I am really more like Cuba. Or the Vatican.
My advisers tell me that for the sake of my public image I have to say something modestly remorseful about this embarrassing matter, but I am under no obligation to say anything of substance. The fact that I have pocketed $1 billion for being a public figure, in prize checks, appearance fees and commercial endorsements, does not mean anyone, especially the police and the media, can ask perfectly reasonable questions that I have no intention of ever answering, since such disclosures would apparently reveal I am not entirely who I appear to be.
Let me pause to express my disapproval of the vicious rumormongers who continue to spread untruths, when no actual truth is being offered by me as an alternative. I don’t see why people won’t just accept my evasions at their word. Especially given my many good and charitable works, like keeping dangerous fish away from my yacht, “Privacy,” and smiling for TV cameras, and studying the word “disingenuous” so I will know it when I see it or hear it.
Cops — they’re just like photographers. People need to understand that I’m entitled to privacy at all times. Privacy is a commodity I own exclusively, and it’s mine to give up only under the right circumstances, in exchange for seven-figure checks. These people who think I’d give it up for free must be crazy. Of course, we’re not talking about the same police officers who provide security to keep those hounding autograph-seekers away. Or the photographers who spread images of me as a family man with my newborns and dogs or document my latest charity event for the world. Those folks are just doing their jobs — jobs in which they essentially report to me.
Here is my statement: “I’m almost perfect. I only made one small mistake, ever. I will certainly make sure nothing like it happens again.”
Among the questions I will not be addressing, when I next appear in public, after my face heals:
Make sure what never happens again?
Why would someone need to smash the two back windows of an SUV with a golf club to get me out of the front seat?
Did the club break?
And most importantly, did Stevie keep everyone quiet during the backswing?
Would forensics detect any dental work on the club face?
Can anything really “courageous” happen at a place named Isleworth? (And by the way hasn’t anyone read the real estate brochure? What happens in Isleworth stays in Isleworth.)
How can anyone knock themselves unconscious in a slow-moving Cadillac Escalade?
What sort of business does an American nightclub hostess have in Melbourne, Australia?
Where would anybody be going at 2:30 a.m. after Thanksgiving? Perhaps to a Black Friday sale, the 4 a.m. special at Wal-Mart on big screen TVs, perfect to hand out to underprivileged children?
Is there a Wal-Mart at Isleworth?
As I say, don’t look to me for the replies to these inquiries, or any others, either. You want answers to questions? Read Andre Agassi’s autobiography.