How to be a “Tiger”: Pretending to be Rich

Did you miss me? Don’t deny it! I’ve seen all the emails wondering when I would write again, begging for my phone number, suggesting they give me a daily column or rename the site “Tales of the Tiger”. But I’m a magnanimous fellow. I don’t want my colleagues to suffer in my shadows…

Anyways, this time I thought I would talk about something that girls love even more than a man with a college education: A man with money. “But Tiger, I didn’t even go to college; how am I supposed to get money??” I know, I know, relax! I’ve got you covered. Today we’re going to learn how to convince a girl that you’re loaded even if you’re in debt to your grandmother.

So let’s imagine you’re working at a gas station. A hot chick pulls up and asks you to fill her tank up, what do you say? “Regular or premium?” NO! You tell her: Hi, my name is Chester B. Exxon Mobil IV, I came here today to speak with beautiful customers like you and make sure that you were satisfied with our service.

So a couple days later after asking her out (you did remember to get her number, right?), you swing by to pick her up in your “good as new” 1997 Dodge Neon. Don’t worry! Explain to your lady friend that you swapped cars with your butler so that he could drive his daughter to her wedding in your Lamborghini Diablo.

Now here comes the tricky part, you are going to have to take her out to dinner. Breathe! Pick a fancy and exotic restaurant and let her order whatever she wants. When you’re done eating, start frantically searching under the table. Tell her that you lost your lucky secret decoder ring. Beg her to look in your car while you pay the bill. Wait about two minutes before sprinting out of there yourself.

As you are getting close to her place, clutch your stomach and cry out in pain. Explain that it’s your thyroid; it always acts up this time of night. With a tear in her eye, she’ll grab your hand and let you inside to “nurse you back to health”. It’s going to be a good night, my friend!

– Mike “the Tiger” MacNamara

Roulette Table

My father would kill me if he saw me right now. And my mother would cry. She had two cousins that ruined themselves with this. One of them was also called Simone. It’s nice to know that I wasn’t named after him. He died of heroine. Or was it a car accident? Or maybe both… I don’t remember. The other one apparently lost his entire fortune at the casino. It only took a few months for him to accumulate a huge debt with the local loan sharks. One day he simply vanished. Probably he ran off to Brazil or another one of those gorgeous countries in South America. My mother loved that cousin. She knows what gambling leads to.

And yet here I am, my first time at a roulette table. So I take it easy; I lay my cigarettes next to the ash tray, and I point to the 10 on rouge. I win. A black guy, that looks like he spent at least twenty years of his life inside casinos, asks me, “Hey dude, may I have a cigarette?” I am glad to offer a cigarette to a fellow player. After all I am winning. So I play again, twenty bucks on 2^nd 12s. I win again. A young guy, who appears to be about eighteen and looks like he has smoked pot since he was twelve, asks me for a cigarette. I am winning, “Of course, here you are.”

“Where are you from?” “I am from Italia.”

“Oh Italy! Italy is wonderful, I always wanted to go and visit Madrid…” I hesitate for a second. This is one of those things that pisses me off about the US. Not only are people under twenty one not allowed to legally drink, but they are allowed to enter into this temple of sin and perdition! How the hell could you think that Madrid is in Italy!?!?!

“Yes, I love Madrid, I go there once month if I can.”

“Yeah, I bet you do, bro!”

“But if you ever go to Europe, I suggest you go to Berlin, France. It’s gorgeous. And my brother told me that Rome in Austria is wonderful!”

“Thank you bro, I really appreciate it.” There is no need for me to say that I lost all of my money that evening.

– Simone la Cuercha

Shit Another Day

Yesterday’s article about the sleep strike got me thinking about striking in general and how shitty it is to have to work. And then something started to bother me.  I remembered the last book I read – which sucked – and the boring movie I saw last Friday. I started calculating all the money I’ve wasted in book stores and movie theaters over the past years, not to mention the money I’ve thrown away on videogames that turned out to be real pieces of shit after I installed them. And I started wondering: if everybody else is getting rich off this shit, why can’t I?

I can be just as much of a lazy bastard as the next guy. I can crank out pure shit. It’s easy. And as a writer that’s basically what I’m doing already. So why can’t I get paid for my shit? You know what? I’m going on a shit strike. I don’t give a shit. No more bathrooms for me. Good bye toilet. I’m done with that shit. From now on, if I’m going to be shitting, I want to be adequately compensated. Nothing in this world is free anymore. And all you other lazy employees out there, follow my lead. They can’t survive without our shit! So let’s go on a shit strike.

I know what you’re thinking, “But Simone, if we don’t shit, we’re going to explode!”

Repeat after me: I am a brave man! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT! Make sure they can hear you! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT! Why can’t they pay for our shit, just like they pay for everybody else’s? WE DON’T GIVE A SHIT! For they can take our lives, but they will never take our shit!

– Simone la Cuercha