Taking a short break between the Bridgestone Invitational and the PGA Championship this week, Tiger Woods, his wife and their baby daughter went for a photography session at an Orlando-area Babies R Us.

A pair of the store’s employees would rather he practice knitting during his down time.

Things inititally went smoothly for Babies R Us session photographer Ralph McCreary and his assistant, Mandy Buchanan. Buchanan would hold up a stuffed animal and make funny noises to get the attention of seven-week-old Sam, while McCreary manned the shutter.

But it was when McCreary tried to get a wacky, candid shot in between poses that Tiger became irked.

“Guys, c’mon,” he barked, leaving McCreary stunned and Buchanan near tears.

“It’s such a disruption.”

The PGA Championship begins today at Southern Hills Country Club in Oklahoma.

If Barry Bonds hits No. 757 tonight, Jim Williams will be able to enjoy it stress free.

Williams, a 22-year sports copy editor for the Washington County Globe, is taking Wednesday off after kicking out what he called “the subhed of a lifetime” last night denoting Bonds’ record-breaking 756th home run.

“I went with 756 with an asterisk for the headline,” Williams said, “but that’s like shooting fish in a barrel. As I like to say, headlines for show, subheds for dough.”

His pride in what came next was evident in a phone interview conducted early Wednesday.

“For the sub, I went with — and this was seconds before our deadline, mind you — ‘No hippies, but suspicous minds and immortality join Bonds on record trip around bases.’ ”

It has everything: imagery, unwasted words, and what I like to call ‘the bedroom wall’ factor. From now until they go to college, every kid in town will have the sports page of the Aug. 8, 2007, Washington County Globe on his wall.

“For me, this was like 9-11, Election Night and Pearl Harbor all wrapped in to one, so, yeah, I’m kicking back tonight.”

This editorial originally appeared in The Yuckraker on Oct. 23, 1960.

Dear Mr. Family Circus Dad,

Being a father means not carrying yourself around like you’re at the dog track all the time, despite what the social mores of our new decade would dictate.

Smoking is one thing, sir, ferrying the kids around drunk is entirely different.

“…And we each had a bottle of soda,” apple-cheeked Billy proudly told his mom upon his triumphant return from the football game yesterday. “Daddy brought his own in his pocket.”

His own in his pocket. Shame on you, Dad.

Not only does soda clearly mean a quote-unquote “road pop,” sir, but you smuggled it into the stadium. That’s unethical at best. Yes, $1.25 is an outrageous price to pay for a beer at the game, but show some class.

The one saving grace is that you only had tickets for Dolly and Billy, leaving Mom, Jeffy, adorable little PJ and Barfy at home to, thankfully, NOT receive word that three loved ones died in a horrible, fiery drunk-driving accident.

So, sir, please take a long, hard look in the mirror tonight before you go to bed. And then ask yourself, “Don’t the kids deserve a dad who doesn’t risk their lives every time he gets behind the wheel?”

We pray that your answer isn’t “Ida Know.”

As it turns out, there may be one thing Muriithi Odumbe, a top-ranked marathoner who has won in Boston and London, can’t run from.

Saturday, in the coastal town of Mombassa, Kenya police raided the house owned by Odumbe under suspicion of a large-scale giraffe-fighting ring.

Hours later, they recovered a dozen of the creatures — all of whom appeared to be healthy, though frisky — and arrested Odumbe.

“I vehemently deny the charges against me,” said Odumbe. “This will be a long process that will not be resolved overnight. I only wish there was a running metaphor that I could use to describe what this process will be like.”

The bust was set in motion by neighbors who became suspicious when they discovered 20-foot-tall doghouses and trees modified with limbs made out of steel and leaves fashioned from chain link in Odumbe’s backyard.

In the indictment, Odumbe’s nickname is listed as “Al.”

COMMENTARY | Uterus of the woman who just had her 17th kid

Alright, this was cute the first 16 times, but after holding your 17th kid for nine months, and now not having him in there, I’ve got to tell you: Just fucking stop already.

Do you know how I feel in there? Just picture Tony Conigliaro’s face and you’ll get an idea.

For most normal women, the non-pregnant uterus is about the size of a plum. I’m the size of Tony Gwynn. I mean, that last baby shot out of you like Brian Urlacher bowled him down a Slip ‘n’ Slide.

You know those tubes that are connected to me? Feel free to get them tied. Seriously, how much more joy would another kid provide at this point? When do the diminishing returns kick in?

Shit, get his tube tied, for all I care. Just get something tied, for fuck’s sake.

Has this become some sort of game now? Are you just waiting for Oprah or Ellen to call you up and say you’re getting a new house and a new bus?

Come on. I hurt.