Tiger Woods, in a hushed press conference today at a crazy posh Florida resort, shamefacedly apologized for his life as both the greatest golfer who ever lived and legendary Dionysian sex god. Woods, who has been silent under the shadow of revelations about his totally epic carnal exploits, today expressed remorse for being amazingly successful in yet another facet of his life. “The things you’ve heard…” Woods confirmed, reading from a prepared statement, “…they’re all true. Not only from the women you’ve heard about in the media, but from six more who will be timing the announcement of book deals strategically throughout the spring and summer in a series of co-branded bestsellers. There’s more too,” Woods continued against a barrage of snapping cameras, “loads more you’ll never hear about, because they’re famous. Like, anyone you’ve ever fantasized about. Basically, just use your imagination and I’ve done it. It was awesome, and I am sorry.”

Woods also confirmed allegations by his mistresses that he is staggeringly well-endowed and possesses Olympian sexual performance skills. “I apologize that these facts — facts which are completely true — ever came to light,” Woods continued gravely. “I struggled to keep these godlike abilities from the public eye, thinking I’d already spread enough feelings of inadequacy with my youth, wealth, fame and command of the game of golf. But now that they’ve come out, I’ve decided the honorable thing to do is step forward and confirm them as true. Like, indisputably. Now I just want the chance to say as respectfully and humbly as possible from the bottom of my heart… to my fans, to America and the world: in your face.”

Woods went on to regretfully announce that he will leave behind his high-stress life under a white-hot spotlight devoted to getting a tiny ball into a cup at great distances, armed only with specialized metal rods. “Though I will miss the constant practice, the travel, the grueling press appearances, the relentless struggle for superiority and the pursuit of major corporate endorsements, I am thankful to have the support of my family and friends, not to mention money…” and with this, Woods gestured broadly around the room crammed with  journalists, “…more money than any of you could ever imagine.”

As I read the headlines these days, more and more my mind is plagued with one question: what do naked people think? Who will tell their story? Is there a hairy, droopy, butt-stanky man waiting in the wings who could provide some insight on this issue? Are there perhaps other people in these same wings who wish this guy would just go away?

Well, finally the voice of the naked has been heard. In a recent press release, The American Association for Nude Recreation has voiced their support for full-body scanners in airport security. “A trained security professional in a remote monitoring station takes a few seconds discreetly screening passengers to be sure they’re only bringing what nature gave them aboard” says AANR Executive Director Erich Schuttauf. “In exchange for safer skies… it’s completely worth it.”

For many, the situation recalls the classic movie Porky’s in which the protagonists discreetly screen the bodies of high school girls in the shower from their remote monitoring station in the boys’ locker room. Schuttauf’s comments, however, remind us why so many were scandalized by the film: clearly, the boys were not trained security professionals.

Regardless of where you stand on the issue of titties and pee-pees though, we can agree that it’s time to welcome the voice of the nudies into the American political arena. In years past, before such associations existed, one nude fellow on his own might have a hard time being heard, at least for any significant length of time before being dragged away. But today, this brave foray into politics comes to us from the AANR, the most respected of the nude think-tanks. Hopefully, in time we can look forward to hearing from other groups such as the Nude Electricians & Pipefitters Union, the American Association of Nude Riverboat Casino Owners, and the National Association for the Advancement of Nude Colored Persons. Perhaps President Obama, after he has declared martial law and taken the role of Supreme Leader, will in his wisdom see fit to create an Office Of Nude Doings, and appoint and Undersecretary of Nude Affairs.

One hopes we are coming closer to a day in which the nude and the clothed can come together in a sweaty, awkward embrace, then quickly pull away.

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In other news, Pat Robertson has recently been quiet about his lifelong crusade against the hokey-pokey, instead turning his attention to the sinners of Haiti. Robertson reminds us of the widely known historical event in which all of Haiti got together and handed their country over to the devil back in 1804, drawing a clear connection between that event and the tragic earthquake which struck them just 206 years later. Of course, it’s hard to imagine a country of nine million people all getting together on anything, but just cast your mind back to the time all us folks in the United States got together and decided Pat Robertson was a hateful douchebag. It was pretty much like that.

Father Droopy Dog has gotten a lot of attention for his revelation, and we should listen to him because apart from being a valued political commentator, he is also a keen predictor of future events. You’ll all recall how he warned us the world would end in 1982. Then it did, and I think I don’t need to remind anyone how bad that sucked. Then, of course, he predicted that great tsunami that destroyed the Pacific Northwest back in in 2006 in retribution for The Kingsmen’s recording of “Louie, Louie.” Clearly, Robertson has a direct line to the will of God as well as a deep knowledge of Satan’s inbox. He warns us that our Lord God is a vicious and smitey deity, not to mention a real bitch when it comes to holding a grudge. So we should heed his wisdom when he recommends a “great turning to God”, because you can’t make that shit up. Wait, yes you can.

This breed suffers from a congenital constriction of the gullet, which explains its constant note of heart-rending tragedy regardless of season or expression.

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The Yelping Trembler

Also known as the “Passionate Canadian”, their cry can be heard for miles, like an air raid siren with Parkinson’s.

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The Mushmouthed Crooner

Legend tells us that trapped within this species is the soul of a poet cursed by an evil wizard who grew exasperated because he found the poet’s verses so annoying. Thus this one is doomed to forever mope about the trees, wailing like a wino in a drunk tank. However, some mesmerized specialists swear that if you listen closely it seems they’re trying to pronounce actual words.

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The Whispering Croaker

This husky-voiced bird with its carefully rumpled feathers is somehow the sweetheart of ornithologists the world around, though it warbles naught but a bewitching nonsense.

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The Trembling Croaker

Pray, what is that on the wind? Why, it’s the ghost of Nina Simone with B.O.

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The Bleating Yodler

This species makes its home in the Appalachians, where for generations its crooked, sour melodies have haunted the mountain hollers. It’s also the focus of an old backwoods tradition in which, once a year, grandmothers and young children alike wake at the crack of dawn to see if they can chase one down and beat it to death with a stick, thus bringing a year of good luck.

1. Observe And Report. Perhaps its proximity to Paul Blart: Mall Cop tagged it with the stank of lo-calorie laffs and Wal-Mart level quality. Or perhaps it was the ad campaign which pitched it as the kind of wild, madcap romp that makes me want to eat glass. Either way, I’ll admit: I prejudged it as below me [hand gesture which waves away fart smell]. However, it was recently recommended to me by a new man-friend, so last night I figured I’d watch it as a referendum on whether I should move him up to solid-dude status. Result? It’s on.

While the mall cop premise seems custom-made for the kind of budget comedy that passes through you like Olestra, Observe And Report takes it to the weird side fast. All I needed to hear was that it was written and directed by Jody Hill, one of the redneck geniuses behind “Eastbound and Down,” and I was sold. Seth Rogen plays Ronnie Barnhardt, a loser with dangerous delusions of awesomeness who has somehow ascended to become head of mall security. As he pursues an elusive flasher, grasping at his nonexistent authority, the cracks in his sanity begin to show. What oozes out is dark, surreal comedy with disturbing twists.

Some mixed feelings though:

* Just as the “indie movie” style has become annoyingly played out (seemingly all you need to make one is a ukulele and some tracing paper), it seems the over-the-top dark comedy while still devilishly enjoyable (see: the also-awesome World’s Greatest Dad) has started to become its own too-predictable genre: the revenge fantasies of a delusional underdog set to music video montage, the jarring inclusion of taboo sexual subject matter, the sudden bending of reality which puts you into magical realism territory, etc.

* and, in a related thought: the increasing ubiquity of song scoring (licensing a handful of songs to essentially be your soundtrack) has led to some lazy filmmaking. I’m torn, because Observe and Report has a killer soundtrack, as does “Eastbound and Down.” But ever since Quentin Tarantino and Wes Anderson beat it to death, it seems almost compulsory nowadays that the audience, the action of the movie, and the film’s score composer are all held hostage to the Music Supervisor’s supercool mix tape.

2. Maybe I’m late to the soapbox with this one, but if The Huffington Post is supposed to be some liberal standard bearer, would it kill them to lose some of the internet flotsam they’re constantly pimping? It always seems odd that you have blogging from some pretty heavy names rubbing right up alongside stories like (actual sampling from this hour): Man With World’s Biggest Penis Unemployed; Terri Hatcher Strips, Feels Boob; Ashley Greene Naked & Body Painted For Sobe. I mean, really? There are other blogs for that kind of shit, like The Onion.

3. Sometimes one can find oneself wondering in adult life if they were aesthetically duped as a kid. Luckily, one trip to the laundromat can confirm that “Africa” and “Rosanna” by Toto are indeed solid jams.

Inspired by Casey’s post, let me nominate for cult status the relatively-new BBC sitcom “The IT Crowd” (yeah, I wondered too: IT meaning I.T., information technology — like I have to tell anyone here — but also it seems deliberately obfuscated to be a play on social popularity). Following close on the heels of both the rise-of-the-nerd trend in popular culture over the last decade (which, if he agrees, I’d love to hear a perspective on from Bill) and the popularity of “The Office,” the show follows the workaday trials of three lovable misfits who make up the I.T. department of Renholm Industries, a faceless corporate workplace whose actual business is in true Kafka-esque fashion never explained.

In contrast to the dulling plainness of the floors above though, their basement dwelling is an underground clubhouse festooned with winking geek-culture references, and the three main characters in all their maladjusted glory seem infinitely more interesting than the drones that populate the rest of the show’s world. Although it’s plagued by some of the same production values I find annoying in many BBC shows — clunky sets, bad lighting & makeup, laughter from a studio audience so cloying it seems canned — it also shares in the best qualities of my favorite Brit comedies: a proudly surreal sense of humor, a championing of the socially awkward, and a general rebelliousness against a life of quiet desperation. It also boasts guest roles from Noel Fielding (“The Mighty Boosh”) and cracked UK comedy genius Chris Morris. I’d recommend Netflix-ing it (if you do that kind of thing) if only for the genius in-jokes of the DVD menus, which are remakes of Nintendo games featuring characters & events from the show.

[just audio, no video]

This deliciously skanky bit of hillbilly weirdness was a novelty hit for Homer & Jethro in 1949, featuring a young June Carter. At the time, Homer & Jethro were pretty much the Flight Of The Conchords of ’40s country. 20 years later, June Carter would become Mrs. Johnny Cash (see: “Ring Of Fire”), but at the time was known as the pretty daughter of The Carter Family who couldn’t sing all that well. She had a thing going with comedy though, so she wisely learned to use those talents to her advantage.

It sounds innocent enough on the face of it: sweet harmonies, slick pickin’, and the voice of a young girl, but listen close to the hilariously twisted lyrics — two backwoods dudes are trying all manner of conniving ways to double-team shorty, and she ain’t having it… orrrr maybe she is, because after all it is cold out there. So maybe just a half a jug more. And say, what’s in this here drink? Hey, gimme the key to that door!

I love things like this which contradict my unconscious assumption that old-time society used to be more repressed and now we’re all somehow freer. This was 1949. Can you imagine Taylor Swift having a hit like this with Big & Rich? They wouldn’t dare.

[I'll post complete lyrics in the comments]

Wolfinsohn’s decision to call it a day doesn’t come as all that much of a surprise. Originally updated every other day, recent episodes have been fewer and farther between. The online comic will be sorely missed, but as hinted at throughout the series some of Wolfinsohn’s work may be headed for TV (which while not as cool probably pays better). I just hope he’s not headed for Mexico.

Okay, okay, so I don’t profess this to be any all-encompassing superlative critical summation. I’m admittedly not the hep young fella I once was and am way behind on the seriously *next* shit. The following are just the platters that spent the most time jazzing me from ‘00 through around ‘07, right around when I started hating all music — and musicians and clubs and bands and singer-songwriters and myself by association. In the intervening years, I’ve listened to a perhaps unhealthy amount of NPR and become hooked on British radio drama. Anyway, I’m better now thanks, and ready to re-engage. So in the meantime, may I respectfully submit my top-to-bottom best 10 albums of the (aptly-named) 00’s.

List after the jump.

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1. Gillian Welch, Time (The Revelator)
A haunting, diamond-cut psychedelic epic. Abraham Lincoln, LL Cool J, Elvis Presley, Casey Jones & Steve Miller meet in that room at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. The truest incarnation since Neil Young’s “On The Beach” of what Gram Parsons termed Cosmic American Music. It defined for me what it was to be alive and American in that historical moment.

2. Mitch Hedberg, (Bootleg) Live At The 40 Watt, Athens GA 4/9/2002

[available at http://www.hedburgh.com/media.shtml] I’m resigned to the fact that saying this pegs me as a living cliche but: for me, in the ’00s, comedy became the new indie rock. [Editor's note: me, too.] It was unexpected, uncharted, alive, tangible and perhaps embarrassingly empowering. A friend came through town on tour with a copy of this not two weeks old and it was the most hilarious, mind-bending thing I’d ever heard. I subsequently went on to memorize the entire 70 min set and recite it to anyone unlucky enough to be trapped in a car with me. I resisted how deep an effect it had on me until Mitch’s death in 2005 and I found myself sobbing in my car on lunch break from work.

3. Aimee Mann, Bachelor #2
Though most of it was the soundtrack to the movie Magnolia, Bachelor #2 was not released in full flower until 2000. Jon Brion’s sentimental genius in the producer’s chair serves up lushly arranged letdowns, opiate-tinged heartbreaks, and barbed tributes. Never has such deep disappointment and resignation been so gorgeously laid out. [Ed's note: Finally, someone shows Aimee some love!]

4. Missy Bly, Clean Bee
As I’ve noted earlier on these pages, it’s easy to forget that childhood is spooky and disorienting. Missy somehow finds a direct channel to these feelings though, and paints 13 portraits of jealous, despairing and ultimately feral children. Spare, lo-fi genius. Just Google “Missy Bly,” will ya?

5. The Shins, Chutes Too Narrow
I’d missed out on Oh, Inverted World, but this one hit me right in the face with its explosive glee and shiny production. It’s a winner from start to finish with sharp turns of melody, phrase and mood. I’d worried for a while that they’d unjustly yanked the twisted-pop crown from the grips of my previously-underappreciated friends Of Montreal, but… well, I guess that’s fixed now, ain’t it?

6. The Streets, A Grand Don’t Come For Free
As hip-hop became bloated with increasingly yawn-inducing claims of criminal/sexual/financial prowess, up jumps this scallywag with his scrappy beats and tales of lovable chav hijinks. Whip-smart, surprisingly emotional, and hey! it all turns out to be one long intricate story by the last track. Best listened to at ear-splitting volume on a cocaine & beer all-nighter.

7. Spoon, Kill The Moonlight
And speaking of cocaine… an absolutely gripping, heart-pounding, right-now rush of a record. Spectacular slapback, whack and crash. Also, not in recent memory has a piano been so rocking and menacing.

8. Tenacious D, Tenacious D
Yes. Comedy about rock which is better than actual rock. Other bands have implied it, hinted at it and generally pussyfooted around, but The D just puts it right out there: “This is the greatest and best song ever written.” I’d contend that there’s no greater, more explicitly self-affirming moment in rock n’ roll than at 2:35 in “Kielbasa” right after JB confirms that it’s in fact Tenacious D time motherfuckers, then explodes with a mighty “FUCK! YEAH!”

9. Amy Winehouse, Back To Black
Try and remember that moment, a year or so before her name became an adjective that meant self-obliteration: she was the new queen, razor-sharp and full of spunk. She may never regain that stature, but against a world of white girls (and black girls, for that matter) trying to put it on like they’re all that, she unquestionably had it and I hope still does.

10. David Cross, It’s Not Funny
Do you remember when George W. Bush was president or, like me, have you almost completely blocked that out of your mind by now? Can you believe that shit happened for most of this past DECADE? Do you remember all the bullshit solemnity and baldfaced horsefucking of truth that went on? David Cross came at that shit with a baseball bat with a nail in it, and it was awesome. For all you secretly believed but didn’t want to be the one to say, David Cross was all too happy to be that guy. [Ed's note: AMEN, BROTHER.]

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Neil Cleary is a musician and general all-around bullshitter whose false modesty won’t allow him to admit that his own two albums, “Numbers Add Up” and “I Was Thinking Of You The Whole Time” are really the two best albums of the ’00s. Like, objectively. He is currently in a death race to get his undergrad degree before he turns 40, but after that will seriously come at you like Wolverine with… y’know, another Wolverine strapped to his chest or something.

If you find yourself unspeakably tickled at this, I like you.

Apparently Sellers was, as he did a bunch more.

h/t to Brendan Calling