Oh, bugger. Snowing again. These pissant “storms” that merely grease the trails and glaze the streets are slipping the proverbial tube steak to my carefully cultivated serenity.

Herself certainly picked the right time to hightail it out of Dodge. She and a couple of girlfriends are on the lam from winter this weekend, hiding out in a Palm Springs condo, eating, drinking and watching it not snow, not even a little bitty bit. They just called with the culinary rundown as I was whipping up a spartan meal of tacos, rice and salad. This is like telling a creekside wino all about your latest gourmet feast.

Speaking of things one does not wish to hear about, I understand Tiger Woods finally performed the obligatory mea culpa before the cameras and mics today. What a load of ice-cold horseshit. First off, if you’re gonna cop a plea, get ’er done while the dew is still on the lily. Second, rehab is for wankers. Show Tiger some pussy, then show him his bank balance. Choose one, big guy. Presto, he’s cured. Thanks, I’ll take my fee in cash.

I couldn’t care less about golf, and where Tiger’s putter has been fluttering is even further down the list of things that hold absolutely no interest for me.

“But what about the young people who view Tiger as a role model?” you ask. To which I reply, anyone looking to emulate the morality of the average multimillionaire athlete should also consult swine for advice on table manners.

I’m reminded of a line from Robert A. Heinlein’s “Glory Road,” in which Star tells Oscar: “I have known many heroes and some were such oafs that one would feed them at the back door if their deeds did not claim a place at the table.”

You want to learn how to pop some skinny nerd in the ass with a wet towel, or imprison him in a gym locker, ask a jock. For all other matters, consult a higher authority. Say, a Magic 8-Ball, or even your own conscience.