TIGER WOODS - Take away his trophy wife, yacht the size of an aircraft carrier, $38 million island estate and otherworldly golf game, and Tiger Woods is just another Joe Sixpack eating canned ravioli and trying to break 90.

OK, who am I kidding? Tiger is to the common man what Lobster Thermador is to Tuna Helper.

I can only wonder what Tiger and I would talk about for four hours and 18 holes. The first image that comes to mind is those classic "Saturday Night Live" skits starring Chris Farley as the nervous, bumbling talk show host.

Me: Uh, Tiger. Remember that time when you won the Masters by, like, 20 shots?

Woods: Yeah.

Me: That was awesome!

After a long silence -- because, really, what can you say as a follow up to that uncomfortable exchange? -- I would try again.

Me: Uhmmmm, Tiger. Do remember that time when you were playing in the desert and you hit your ball behind that big boulder and you had no shot until a bunch of fans picked it up and moved it for you? The boulder, I mean.

Woods: Yeah.

Me: That was awesome!

After watching me play, I'm sure Tiger would have some questions, too.

Tiger: Where did you get that golf swing, Kmart?

Tiger: Is that your backswing or are you having a seizure? Should I call 911?

Tiger: Are you going to hit your shot, or is that your glacier imitation?

Tiger, I'm sure, is too polite to point out the many flaws in my game. Playing a round with him would reveal much about a man who has been careful to keep his personal life personal. Too much of what we know about Tiger comes from 20-minute media sessions devoted to questions such as the yardage he had on his second shot on 16.

Tiger: "I had 187 to the front of the green, 211 to the pin. There was a little wind, about 3 mph, in our face. I hit a three-quarter pitching wedge."

Yawn.

John Daly is anything but boring. A round of golf with him would be a hoot. But I'll let Ramblin' Mike have that honor. Because there's nothing left to be revealed about Daly we don't already know.

The guy is a country music song sprung to life.

Shoot, he's even written a little ditty about how all his ex's wear Rolexes.

So I'll take Tiger and, after our round, the champagne and lobster. Ramblin' Mike and Big John can hit the local Hooters for chicken wings and Busch Lights.

Did someone just say Hooters?

Is it too late to change my mind?

Contact sports editor Loren Nelson at (760) 740-3551 or lnelson@nctimes.com.