Offering some tips for Tiger Woods: The Book of Norman

Well, at some point, Tiger forgot that he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else. Actually — more to the point — I guess he forgot that he takes off his pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

I told him not to get married. He did.

I told him not to have kids. He did.

I told him not to sleep with 23 women in 23 months. He did.

Now Tiger Woods is just another duffer knee-deep in rough, on the 18th hole and beyond.

How did the greatest golfer of his generation — potentially the best of all time — go from birdie machine to broken man?

Well, at some point, Tiger forgot that he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else. Actually — more to the point — I guess he forgot that he takes off his pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

Anyway, this is how Sports Nation works:

Not too long ago, people were wondering when Tiger would break Jack Nicklaus’ record of 18 majors. Now, people are wondering if Tiger will ever win a major again.

(We also recently saw the whirl of public opinion in regard to LeBron James. Late last NBA season, he was a champ-in-waiting. One bad postseason later, he is a chump-in-progress. Throw in “The Decision,” and LeBron went from icon to irritant in a Miami minute. He will rise again, and the same people now savaging him will be celebrating him.)

Tiger’s game is a mess. A couple of weeks ago at Firestone Country Club — which used to be his personal playground — he finished tied for 78th out of 80 golfers at the WGC-Bridgestone Invitational. If Tiger Woods were a geographical area, President Obama would’ve declared a major disaster by now and ordered federal funds to aid him.

Of course, all of this is in the wake of his much publicized motorized-and-marital mishaps, resulting in a mind-numbing $100 million divorce settlement from wife Elin Nordegren.

(Some people say, “Big deal. He’s worth a billion dollars.” Maybe he is. But you don’t think Tiger misses $100 million more than he misses fairways? Even his mistresses said he was cheap — Mindy Lawton told Vanity Fair that the only thing Tiger ever bought for her was a chicken wrap from Subway; at least she didn’t settle for a $5 foot-long.)

For all his travails, they might be moot if Tiger could do just one thing:

Putt.

These days, he’s using the Steve Blass signature putter. He can’t make anything; I doubt he has the “yips.” I mean, I guarantee you he went years without the yips on and off the course — what, you think he ever stammered when he was telling untruths to Elin or one of his countless concubines?

(Speaking of celebrity infidelity, over the last generation, Bill Cosby, David Letterman and now Rick Pitino have developed a winning strategy: Cheat on your partner, claim extortion and be the victim. Couch Slouch salutes this cynical application of fame and fortune.)

Tiger even changed putters between Saturday and Sunday of the British Open. That would be like Michelangelo changing brushes three years into painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Woods grew back that goatee — guys usually do that when they’re in midlife crisis, if they can’t afford a BMW — and that’s also ruined his long game.

If they replaced the flagstick with a fire hydrant, maybe he’d hit it.

Lately he makes Bill Murray look like Ben Hogan. At this point, if we were to go to a miniature golf course together, I’d have to give Tiger a stroke a hole.

How can Tiger fix it all? Maybe all he needs is a steam and a rub.

Or maybe, like George Costanza once on “Seinfeld,” Tiger needs to do the opposite of his instinct every time: Use the 2-iron instead of the 3- wood. Lay up from the trees instead of going for the green. Have some yogurt for breakfast instead of driving to Perkins.

But if I were him, I’d just take a road trip. No golf, no girls. Spend April in Paris. Go on safari. Read “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” Rent “Animal Crackers” on DVD.

If all else fails, Tiger could just crawl back to Elin and lie like a dog. He’s had enough practice.

Norman Chad is a freelance writer in Los Angeles.