She who must be obeyed doesn't normally allow me to address the subject of marriage in this column (or anywhere else, for that matter) but, given these extraordinary times, I have been granted 750 words. In my capacity as a newly ordained minister, I have been asked to perform the sacred rites of marriage between Tiger Woods and the unbearably lovely Elin Nordegren. Yes, my tiny flock, I am now Rear Cardinal of the brand-spanking-new Hasidic Presbycatholic Church of St. Arnold-on-the-Green (none of the fun, all of the guilt, but half the price). I ordained myself online last Thursday, my kit arrived today and I am sooo excited. I've got a two-foot-tall red conehead cap; an infallibility headcover for my oversized Cobra crosier; a skin-tight Sansabelt cassock with matching V-neck intarsia surplice; and a righteous indignation that would make Jimmy Swaggart stop crying and drop the collection plate.

Why have I been chosen? Privacy, of course. You could have gagged me with a hamster when that rotten gnu-herder at his tawdry little zoo in South Africa dropped a dime on T and E (Who Must Soon Be Obeyed). If I weren't a man of the cloth, I'd wish a pox on the dirty bastard. Over the past few years, I have always done my utmost to protect the privacy of the world's greatest golfer, deliberately tripping Golf Channel cameramen, keeping my interview questions short and pointless. I've even avoided eye contact for fear of learning something about Tiger that might later be tortured out of me. Hell, I once kissed Roger Maltbie on the lips and held him firmly by his microphone to keep him away from Tiger. Greater love hath no announcer than he who tastes second-hand Marlboros and Michelob Ultra for his friend. Mine is a noble cause, and watching Tiger play has been, until now, my only reward. Due totally to the fact that I know absolutely nothing about him, I now regard myself as his closest friend in the media. Deep joy!

Naturally, every horrible hack has an opinion on how the ball and chain will affect Tiger's career, but I am not going to speculate. I'm not the average sports journalist, who thinks people might actually give a rat's ass what he writes. I know better than that. I prefer to use my tried and trusted system: Wait and see what happens, then claim I predicted it. In fact, I forecast Tiger's wedding in these pages three months ago, in my Fearless '04Cast. OK, so I said he'd marry Barbara Nicklaus — I was close.

Elin's appearance on the scene was a challenge to my relationship with Tiger, but again I took the high road and chose not to be there. There was far too much risk that Elin might fall for me instead (she's only human), and as She Who Must points out (she's writing this bit) I already signed a scorecard on this one, don't want to die, etc. Fortunately, in order to maintain the special relationship between Tiger and me, I've gone out of my way not to meet his new bride.

Now, I can imagine the furor this news will cause among the scumbag paparazzi, but I can state quite categorically that they can all go photo themselves. The date of these historic nuptials — unspecified by Tiger and Elin — has been left up to me, and I would never tell. I've already forgotten. However, I can let the location slip. Try getting your horrible little helicopters to hover over a diving bell 300 feet below the surface somewhere in the South Pacific, media vermin! And don't think you'll catch sight of the Very Rev. Rear Cardinal, either. Respecting the privacy of his friends as always, he won't be there. The Church of St. Arnold-on-the-Green is a low-maintenance outfit, so I'll just leave the happy couple a note in Latin:

For Tiger and Elin, on their wedding day —

Icto alterno semper lude et nil desperandum (Always play alternate shot and don't let the bastards get you down).

Love, Cardinal Dave