As no one in America, famous or obscure, has apparently never engaged in clumsy, ill-advised extramarital affairs, we continue to tease out the latest wrinkle of the Tiger Woods' saga. This particular wrinkle finds the plot shifting from Rachel Uchitel to Jaimee Grubbs. And Tiger Woods' worst week ever gets worser as a leaked voicemail starts circulating throughout the internet, a message wherein Woods can be overheard advising Grubbs to take her name off her outgoing massage his wife may be going through all the numbers on his phone. Grubbs, meanwhile, claims she has over 300 sexts and photos to back up a claim that she conducted a torrid, 31-month affair with the golfer.

Before we talk about the content of Grubbs' phone, let's pontificate on something even sketchier: How can a middling cocktail waitress afford a cell phone plan that can casually hold 300 text messages (in addition to other missives not related to Woods) and a file folder of raunchy photographs? Is the real missed opportunity here not blackmail, but her carrier's negligence of tapping her as their next spokeswoman, seeing as she's squarely in the media cross-hairs for the next three to four minutes?

Moving on: Grubbs, star of such reality fare as VH1's Tool Academy (whatever, I know she didn't earn enough from that or anything related to afford her cell phone plan), says that it all started on a fateful day in 2007 when Woods picked her up with the line, "You don't look like you're having any fun." Well played, Tiger. Puttin' some growl into it. Example of one sext (of many) he sent Grubbs:

Send me something very naughty...Go to the bathroom and take (a picture).

Oh, Tiger. No. So yes, these, in tandem with the very audible leaked v-mail not only prove that Woods was probably conducting steamy trysts on the side, but also that the rest of us are horrible for our passive role in the breaking nature of this story. If only because of talking about it, we've become complicit in the downfall of a guy who's been, frankly, one of the less offensive celebrities to pass through the bowels of culture. Not that we should adjust our behavior (why start now?), have listen to the voicemail below. The soundbite raises one final question: How does a middling cocktail waitress with no notable computer background get the smarts to tinker with her phone just enough to download voicemails to her computer and then encode them as MP3s?