Are we quite finished? Or are our own lives so unfulfilling and so morally transcendent that we’re going to spend our holiday season continually chortling over the domestic drama of Tiger Woods?

Because I’m over it.

Was pretty well satisfied when I heard that nobody died.

Achieved complete satisfaction when Angie Dickinson stared down a sea of cameras and assured me that nobody committed a crime more heinous than, um, “careless” driving.

Hey, thanks for that. Did Woods get a citation for the license plate light being extinguished, too?

The last nine days have underscored everything that is grievously errant and despicable about American priorities at decade’s end. And only a fraction of a percentage point has anything to do with Woods’ acknowledged marital transgressions.

Oh, and it is Woods, by the way. Mr. Woods, if you speak the New York Times’ English. Not Tiger.

My hard-line stance on this has nothing to do with two decades of writing Associated Press style in my sleep. It’s couched in common sense. You don’t know the guy. We aren’t friends. I’m not on a first-name basis or a nickname basis with the greatest golfer who ever lived.

He owes us nothing. Not even if we have traces of blood coursing through our Gatorade stream. Not even if we have a baby’s-butt smooth jaw line or legs courtesy of Gillette. Not even if we’re covered in Nike swooshes from our bald spot to our ingrown toenails.

If you can’t live with Woods’ moral shortcomings, speak with your wallet. Don’t buy those products. Don’t glue your eyes to the screen every time Woods makes his playing partner wet himself on Sunday afternoon of a major.

But while you’re stocking up on Kmart tennis shoes, Kool-Aid and dollar-store razors, may I suggest a bottle of Windex for your own bathroom mirror?

Don’t know what your faith teaches, but mine instructs that if I’ve formed the thoughts in my mind, it’s as good (or bad) as following through. That’s why I celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas and every other holiday like a maniac: Because I have zero hope in this life or the next one without someone’s mercy.

With the exception of our compassion toward animals and sick children, we’re wretched when it comes to extending mercy in this country. And by contrast, we’re fabulous at inventing and feeding a phenomenon, then tearing it limb from limb when it doesn’t satisfy our impossible standards.

The day that TMZ.com became a viable news source is the day news died.

The first night that shrill shrew Nancy Grace was given a forum to try and convict people in the court of public opinion for two and three hours at a time was the night television died.

The week we allowed the details of a traffic accident at 28 mph and the talk of a troubled marriage to dwarf Thanksgiving football, hot stove baseball or even the World Cup soccer draw was the week that sports died.

We’re fascinated by people who take home checks, unlike ourselves, with zeroes on the left side of the decimal point. But part of the fascination appears to be the off chance of seeing them slip on the banana peel, probably so we feel better about our own deposit-to-deposit lives.

Sadly, the same people who have spent more than a week making insipid, off-color jokes about Woods and his family are guilty as sin, themselves.

They’ve mentally undressed coworkers. They’ve rounded off taxable income to the nearest hundred. They’ve stretched the truth like Silly Putty until they can’t recognize where it ends and the lie begins.

Me included.

But our lives aren’t broadcast on public access, let alone the big screen. There isn’t a chance we’d want Woods or any other publicly exposed adulterer to be a fly on the wall in that life, either.

This too shall pass. Woods hopefully will reconcile with his beautiful wife and channel his spare time into the hearts and minds of their two children. The physical welts will heal, too, and he will go back to being the finest practitioner of his craft with little to no lasting debt to be paid.

Meanwhile, the chorus of hypocrites will latch onto some other politician, actor, singer or athlete whose hormones got the best of him or her. They’ll waste hours of company time gossiping about it and sharing those cutesy mass emails their friends have come to know and promptly delete.

Worst of all, their lives will stay the same, too.

Kalle Oakes is a staff columnist. His email is [email protected].