And now resident romantic, Tigerman, addresses his bride-to-be, whoever she might be.
Dear you, oh so unforgettable you,
Ours is a love that the bard wrote about in iambic pentameter, the Beatles sang about with their mop-top little heads, it was immortalized in the greatest, dirtiest limericks of all time… and you haven’t even met me yet.
Or maybe you have. Maybe we took the same journalism class back in college but never spoke to one another, just occasionally shot each other longing glances from across the lecture hall. You admired the way my fur and ears looked in the sunlight. I was entranced by your luscious lips and your big, beautiful…eyes. Alas, neither one of us had the nerve to approach the other. Then, one day, I was returning from an overnight trip to Brooklyn, strolling away from the union square station and you, running late back to work after breaking up with your beau at lunch, happened to bump into me on the street corner. I helped you off the ground by lending a helpful paw, apologizing profusely.
You, after recovering from the fall and the impact of your recently crumbled relationship, took a good look at me and said
“Hey, didn’t we take the same Journalism class?”
I of course, having blocked most of college from my memory, took a moment to ponder your question.
“Hmmm...” I muttered in a crude way of buying time. As soon as I got a good look at your bodacious...eyes, I of course remembered all the stolen glances between us in perhaps the most boring class we took in college. “Oh yeah! Hey. How are you? You look fantastic.”
Of course this was but the first step of a whirlwind romance whose passion exceeded the censor’s strict limit on fun material that I’m allowed to share here. But trust me when I say our romantic exploits would make even the most experienced lovers blush.
The years roll by. My fur isn’t as thick as it used to be, you start replacing coffee for vodka and we end up sleeping in different rooms on opposite sides of the house. You start passive aggressively insinuating that marrying a tiger was the biggest mistake you ever made. I no longer bother bringing you a fresh gazelle for dinner anymore because you just mention how that lion you dated in high school used to bring you fresh zebra. I of course explain that a) zebras and tigers never cross paths in nature and b) I’m against all stripe-on-stripe crimes. You slam the door in my face and I run off to the river to take a nice swim and relieve my stress. I come home, refreshed, only to find you in the feathers of our pool boy, that damn flamingo with the crooked beak.
Of course all of this could have been avoided if we had never gotten into a debate over what the best album of the 1970’s was. More relationships end over silly music debates than, well, over something else…
So when I come home and pack my bags, don’t take it too hard. It’s not you, it’s her. She just has better taste in bands than you
Sincerely,
Your first husband
Tigerman
P.S. For the record, the following are bands that I’ll be ok with you calling your favorites:
Pink Floyd, Queen, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Radiohead, The Smiths, Nirvana, They Might Be Giants, MFUJ and a few dozen others.
I apologize for being so strict about this, but good taste in music is so much more important than anything else. Believe me. I’m a bass player. Bass players know things.
Tigerman is a self-taught bass player as well as a six foot tall anthropomorphic tiger creature. He spends all of the time he isn’t playing music talking about his future wives. So far he has had no girlfriends. A lot of women seem to be turned off by the whole talking tiger standing on two legs thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment