| Saturday, October 11, 2003 |
 | In honour of Jeans for Genes Day, I was going to declare this week Taffeta for Catheters week. However, events seen rather to have overtaken me. Therefore it gives me great pleasure to declare OH SHIT IT’S A TIGER week.
So far, admittedly, things have been quiet on the fuck me a tiger front, but we confidently expect this to be a temporary status. After all, with the precedent of the savaging of Roy Horn, demonstrating once and for all that real magicians don’t lock themselves in boxes, they pick fights with tigers, and the discovery of a half-Bengal, half-Siberian, all-oh my sweet lord a tiger tiger in an apartment in New York, the only way is likely to be up. As in, up a tree and hope it isn’t hungry.
Thinking of raising your own tiger? Here are some suggestions. Apparently, an adult tiger consumes $150 of meat a week, and should be given the opportunity to eat brains, spine, eyes and other part of the animal for a balanced diet. Anything I said at this point about our capital’s fine fast food establishments would be at best a jade’s trick.
Still and all, I am interested by the surmise that Roy Horn’s mistake was that, when the tiger batted at his arm, he stumbled and thus showed weakness. I have two problems with this. Faced with a companionable swipe from a 500-pound killing machine, I would say that anything up to and including catching a cab to the next state would be neither weak nor in any fashion reprehensible. Second up, the guy is wearing a white tuxedo, he’s got bouffant hair and a little soul-patch, he’s pushing 60 and still turning out every night to chainsaw the lady. The tiger has seen all this hundreds of times, he knows every trick by heart, he knows every thunderflash and secret compartment, and he’s sharing a stage with Siegfried and fucking Roy. The tiger might be entitled to think of almost anything in this setup, “dude, this is weak”.
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