Jonna's Bl💫g

I’m an astute observationist of all things controversial. Not only can I spot disputation a mile away, but I actually comb the aisles for it, shove it in my bag, and pull it out whenever life’s banter becomes too sedate. It’s my small way of splashing cold water in the faces of those polite chatterers who choose to duck from the intellectual stimulation that rides on the backs of prickly subjects. Hey, somebody’s got to do it. Besides, I can only listen to little Timmy’s game-winning homerun story so many times before I am urged to grab the first pair of defibrillation paddles I can find, and use them on myself. The topic of cheating is always a crowd pleaser. And since Tiger’s story still has plenty of legal squish (my term, meaning legal thrust or kick) to go around, I figured we should stay here for a while, or at least until something knocks him off the bulls-eye like a well-thrown bocce ball at my Uncle Genie’s 70th birthday party. Rachel Uchitel, Tiger’s original mistress whose i...

So, I’m trying to decide for whom I feel more sympathy; a rabid, garbage-eating, filthy-whiskered rat dipped in feces, or any one of Tiger Woods’ harem of hussies? I’m going with the rat. It’s bad enough that the public has been sucked into the private celebrity life of Woods in all its ingloriousness, but please stop assaulting my senses further with the constant loop of cry-baby sluts who think they actually have something to cry about. They don’t. But cry they do, reading their feelings from a crumpled cocktail napkin moments before Gloria Allred wipes their noses with it, and then mugging for the camera with a look so indignant, it should growl. Listen up bimbo brigade, nobody cares about what you’re “going though”, because what you’re going through, you created. “But I wuv him,” sobbed some bobble-headed porn star. “And, he lied (sniff, sob, blow). He owes me an apowogy. Wight, Glowia?” Wrong. Nobody owes you a thing. When you make your bed with a married man, you lose the right –...