I like farts. They make an amusing sound, cause stuffy people around you to flee in terror, and serve as the final stroke in nearly every gastrointestinal conquest known to man. Any man who can't at least crack a smile when you punctuate a joke with a well-timed fog slicer is scarcely a man at all.

When I first heard that Tiger Woods farted audibly on the 18th hole at the Buick Open, it made me chuckle. I've written in the past about how Tiger's frequent cursing and club slamming actually makes him more accessible to the every-man who has a similar urge to break his clubs over his knee after a bad round. If anything could top losing one's temper in the list of 'things that make us human,' dropping a methane bomb and laughing would be it.

What's surprising though is the faux-controversy that has risen up around it. Some are apparently so sold on his competitive image as golf messiah that they can't wrap their heads around the idea that even Tiger will toot his own horn every now and again, in a manner of speaking. Fox News insists that the offending flatulence came from David Feherty, who was micced at the time and has been known to joke with Tiger on occasion. Still others in the golf blogosphere have speculated that what sounds like a gluteal tuba is no more than a blast from a massive whoopee cushion.

Of course, this would have been just another celebrity cheek flapper story if CBS hadn't been so ardent about pulling any and all footage they could find on Youtube, which totally defies any logical explanation I can come up with. Haven't they learned anything from the LeBron dunk fiasco? Deliberately hiding a story that it's in plain sight does nothing except help blow it up. Or to use a more appropriate analogy, holding in the fart only ensures that it will be bigger, louder, and smell worse than it would have been if they had just let it out.

I have a dream that one day in the green hills of the Buick Open, the sons of former golf announcers and the sons of former golfers will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood and let em rip. I have a dream that one day even the PGA, an organization sweltering in the heat of intestinal troubles, sweltering in the heat of repressed gas, will be transformed into an oasis of flatus and ass whistles. I have a dream today!

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