I hope all the swear police are happy. And you know who you are. You’re the gang of greatness bashers who went after Tiger Woods for his supposed lack of decorum on the course (mostly focusing on the fact he sometimes swore like a salesman at himself) for years, then had an apoplectic fit of joy when he threatened a few photographers with neck rearrangement at Doral.

Because it meant you could whine and moan even louder.

Well, you’ve done it. You’ve turned Tiger into a mere mortal at The Masters, made the best player in golf history more tentative than a nerd on prom night. Oh, you could chalk up Tiger’s 72-71 start, his seven shots off the lead standing heading into the weekend, to his game being off.

You could. But you’d be completely wrong.

For Tiger’s flailing because he’s thinking about not cursing.

How do I know this? Because he let loose with a very audible “Woodward!” on sending his drive on 18 into the pines in the second round. Woodward? This isn’t Tiger Woods. It’s Steve Eurkel in his body.

Tiger needs to string so many expletives together after a bad shot that Andrew Dice Clay would be impressed. Otherwise, he’s nothing. He’s all bottled up. He’s just another PGA Tour robot. Woodward equals no green jacket for Woods.

All because some busy bodies could not take a little colorful language.

Woodward? How sad.

What’s so wrong with neck manipulation anyway? You’d be a whole lot better off with Tiger Woods than one of those chiropractor quacks.

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