To My Future Second Wife Part 1: Hello, I Love You, Won't you tell me your name?

And now resident romantic, Tigerman, addresses his second bride-to-be, whoever she might be. No, we can't believe that they gave him five more of these to write either.

Dear you, wonderful, beautiful you,

In case you have no idea who I am, I am your future husband and you are my future second wife. Don't worry. The divorce will have been finalized by the time the two of us took our vows. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

Hello. I'm Tigerman. The two of us may or may not have met yet. Perhaps you were an artistic beauty with a western European accent, let's say French, and the two of us exchange longing glances of unbridled passion from both near and afar. Or perhaps while traveling through Asia, I wake up in a brothel next to you and your co-workers. Or maybe you saved my life when I was drowning in the Amazon river and resuscitated me with those luscious lips of yours.

Yes, the possibilities are endless but due to time constraints and I can only list the PG rated possibilities.

Darling, regardless of how we meet (if we haven't already), I just want you to know that I won't repeat the mistakes that will doom my first marriage. I promise not to sleep with every last one of your girlfriends. I promise not to trick your ridiculously wealthy great grandmother to make me her sole heir. I also promise not to convince your cats that you are secretly tring to poison them, thus triggering the great feline paranoia epidemic of 20XX.

I know that I have a lot that I need to work on before our inevitable marriage. Yet how can I work on faults that I haven't yet developed? This whole time-space continuum thing is just out of control. I just want to love you like Antony loved Cleopatra, minus the end of that story. You may ask me why we can't be together now, well that's because my first marriage has not even begun  yet. Apparently it needs to happen or the very fabric of reality will be torn asunder.

I don't like it any more than you, but be patient my love.

Sincerely

Yours future husband

Tigerman

P.S. What's your name?

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. We were just as sad as you were when we find out about this contractual snafu. Whoever told Tigerman to keep writing these letters is fired. Audience participation!

"Stop the war on women. Start war on the jerks that are degrading them..." said Slate in a recent rant on the MFUJ website. I guess the guy has some depth of character after all. Maybe he should run for office. Any office. As long as he gets out of here. And by the way, True men don't kill coyotes. Not sure what that has to do with anything but it's something to think about too.

The following is a statement by MFUJ lead vocalist, Slate Man. No, we're not making this up.

I know that I'm not usually taken seriously around here, or in general. But there's something I need to get off my heavily tattooed chest.

I'm not sure who started this most recent war on women, but it needs to stop. We should instead declare a war on self-righteous chauvinists who think that they have the right to control a person's right to have autonomy over their own body and life.

Here's a newsflash, you old miserable suits. Not everyone shares your beliefs. It's a free country. You have the right to believe whatever sane or crazy things you want to believe. That does not, however,  mean that you have the right to impose your beliefs on other people, especially if it'll affect the health, well being and dignity of a large part of the population, like women.

It takes a certain level of arrogance and malice in a person for them to decide that the best use of their time is to attempt to pass harmful laws that would violate a woman and rob her of her dignity with invasive policies that are designed to promote some archaic, patriarchal sense of morality. You wouldn't like it if women created laws that would degrade men, would you? No, I don't think so.

Somehow we allow women to be mistreated in this country while the men who mistreat or even abuse women are allowed to get away with it, hell some of them are celebrated "leaders" or "artists" or "comedians". When humor becomes an excuse to be vicious and express some repressed animosity you might be concealing, then you really have to wonder if there's any humor there at all and not just hatred.  

How is it right, by any logic, to treat half of the population as less than human? If you don't like women, go live in the woods by yourself. Don't act like you are entitled to treat people any which way you want because you are some privileged know-it-all who feels threatened by the notion of a free-thinking, independent woman. It's sad that because of your own insecurities (or is it just antipathy) you want to drag down the rest of society with you.

I'm not telling you what to think or what to do. It isn't my place to impose my beliefs on your life like that. Just remember that you were born because of a woman and you may end up having daughters and granddaughters one day and that any of the rights you take away from women, you are also taking it away from people you love and people that others love. If you can mistreat them like that and can still look at yourself in the mirror, then you really must be a vampire because there's nothing good left to reflect back at you.

G Mod reaches out to former nemeses, the Occupy Protesters, promising not to sue them, offering them condolences for not being as effective as they wanted to be and even suggesting that he could be their new leader: "I will deliver, you know I'm a forgiver." Wait, is this the second time we used that song? Don't worry. This is the Johnny Cash version. Oh. Okay. Carry on.

The following is an (unexpected) letter from MFUJ manager, G Mod to the Occupy protesters that used to, well, 'occupy' the lawn outside of the MFUJ offices.

To the unwashed masses that tuned my lawn into a primordial pit of ooze,

I know you're hurting. You might not believe that I do, but I mean it. I know all about believing in something strongly and then having it fall apart after months, or even years of working towards a goal.

I wanted to be a billionaire record producer. But did that work out? Well, you can just see by the non-existent sales for MFUJ's first five albums that my dreams are out of reach. hell, after the latest webisode, we're not even sure where the band costumes, I mean outfits have gone so who knows if we'll be able to film any more of those episodes you love to watch.

Let's get back to you. You thought that you were serving some greater purpose by protesting MFUJ, whether it was for my alleged greediness and megalomania (whatever the hell that means) or if it was just because of Brick's lame single, "99". Maybe you just wanted to be hip and rebel against your wealthy parents that pay for your loft in Williamsburg and for your liberal arts education, who knows? So you protested, congregated and you defecated and what happened? Your group was evacuated by the place and your morale was broken and you splintered off into your little bubbles again.

What happened? Should you give up just because your actions didn't really make a difference in the long run? No. You have passion in your pants (or bras) and you ain't afraid to show it. Do not be afraid of your drive and ambition. They are what will lead you to greatness.

So, you are probably wondering why I'm writing to you. Well, I am well aware that your leader, the bear in the Che Guevara t-shirt that I did not have nightmares about when I was in exile, is now serving a life sentence for a series of parking tickets and other violations. You are a ship without a captain. Let me offer you my guidance. Now, you might not have expected me to reach out like this, given the utter devastation you have left in your wake.

You need someone who understands you and can lead you to greatness. I will deliver to you all that your hipsterish hearts could want in an ironic way. You don't have to worry about me holding onto many grudges. I'm G Mod.  I will deliver, you know I'm a forgiver.

When you feel like beginning a better life, lift up the receiver, I'll make you a believer. Reach out and touch fate.

Your own personal something,

G Mod

MFUJSF has reached its first anniversary. Nobody saw that coming. Least of all us. Long Live MFUJSF! Long live acronyms! Long live the people who read this blog! Shhh... The echo of a distant tide comes willowing across the sand and everything is green and submarine.

Well, well. I smell turkey. Sorry. We thought this Long Christmas Dinner for a second since time seems to be moving so quickly. One year, huh? Wow. And we only had 63 entries and just about 700 views? Hey, that's better than we thought we'd do.

We'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read our little online novel in progress. Well, it's a bit too eclectic to be a novel, but you get our meaning. Thank you for sticking with us for the first "season" of MFUJSF. Sorry that we didn't have a proper season finale. I guess you can count the fourth webisode and the Tigerman arc as a season finale.

What should you expect from MFUJSF: Year Two? More Webisodes (better quality filmmaking and more intelligent scripts). The continuation of Tigerman's job @ Tiger International and what G Mod's involvement really means. Shadow's secret will be revealed and the band will never be the same again. What else? Slate and G Mod start an evil law firm and battle a vampire with a soul... oh wait, wrong universe. Umm, Brick will finally do something and umm, G Mod will make an unexpected offer to someone. And Audience participation...

Stay tuned...  

To My Future First Wife Part 5: Well, nothing lasts forever even... No, I can't do it. I can't make a November Rain reference, even if there Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone.

 And now resident romantic, Tigerman, addresses his bride-to-be, whoever she might be.

Dear woman whose heart I will inevitably break and/or will leave me a hollow husk of my former self,

I know that it has been a Tiger's age since I've written to you. I'm sorry that it took me so long to do so. My life has been, well, in a state of mass upheaval. First I had to abandon my home because my fellow band member, Brick, wrote a song called 99 that may have ticked off the Occupy protesters (they also hate our boss, G Mod, because he's an evil, rich bastard). Then I almost became a rug after I misplaced G Mod's sunglasses. I don't even remember doing so, but apparently I'm responsible, go figure.  Lastly, I've recently been hired to work for Tiger International, the number one feline owned cable channel in the world.

I've been so busy that I haven't been able to think my priorities through. You know that I love you with all my heart. I eat, sleep and breathe with the love I have for you, even though we haven't met yet, or at least haven't confirmed our love for one another. When my life recently flashed before my eyes, I had a chance to reevaluate my priorities. Also, I found out that legally I'm only allowed to write five of these entries to my future first wife. I'm not sure if Slate was correct about that but he said that writing five times to the same woman and not getting a response was "hilariously pathetic". Oh well.

I had time to think. Even though I've spent four entries talking about how much I love you, despite the fact that I really don't know anything about you, there has always been a big issue with this whole series of intimate, exquisitely written letters. You are my future FIRST wife. First. As in not the only one. As I'm not a polygamist, that means that, for one reason or another, our romance will end in ruin. This saddens me to no end. Can you imagine me investing all these emotions and hours writing letters only to find out that this is all fleeting. Was it worth anything? What could I have done differently to save our not-yet-announced marriage from sinking into the crimson sea of divorce? I don't think I could have loved your nondescript features and generic personality traits any more than I already do now. I just can't. Loving hurts so bad that I can't handle anymore.

This is all doomed, like a TV show named Cursed and then later renamed after the actor in the lead role but inevitably cancelled by the network anyway. You are, or at least will be, my first wife. There is no avoiding the upcoming failure. Of course, if we never got married, then we would never get divorced and I'd never end up with my second wife and not doing that would have enormous ramifications on the future...one would assume.

Ok, that puts things in a new perspective. So, what you are saying is that if we don't fall in love then we will subsequently create a time paradox where the lack of our doomed love will in fact doom the whole world. Well, that would be a catastrophe. (ha. cat-astrophe) Is it really better to have loved and lost then to never have loved at all? I guess it is if the fate of the world depends on us coming together only to fall apart? Oh, this all so confusing!

I, well, I love you, woman of unknown origin. It tears me up on the inside that we can't work out our personal differences in order to be a couple just a little while longer. Just think of all the love we will miss out on due to all the resentment, jealousy and nigh endless litigation. We really don't have a choice though. We could try prolonging the inevitable but it would be pointless. It couldn't last. The ice holding our love together has to melt and unleash the flood of animosity for the good of everyone else. Linger one more moment and we'll surely drown.

Hello and farewell, my future first wife. You will be too good for me and I will let you down when you need me most. And when you leave, there'll be no more sunshine anymore.

I miss you already.

What else could I be? All Apologies.

Sincerely,

Your future ex-husband

Tigerman

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. With this entry, he has fulfilled his contractual obligation for the "To My future First Wife" series. We couldn't be more thrilled. You wouldn't believe how bad it was that he... What? He is now contractually obligated to do 5 "To My Future Second Wife" entries? **** me!

Meet the New Boss, same as...No, he couldn't be the same, could he? That wouldn't be fair.

Well, look what happened while we were away. Tigerman actually landed a job. Yes. That's right. That six foot tall anthropomorphic creature that plays the bass, writes love letters to women who would never in a million years be interested in him and was almost turned into a rug after he misplaced a pair of cheap sunglasses. That guy. He is now among the employed. I guess the recession is over. It seems like they'll hire anyone these days. You're telling me. I just got named partner at a prestigious law firm. I don't even know any laws. That's crazy, italicized voice. Hey! That's Italicized voice, Esq. Ah jeez...

So anyways, now that the threat of angry protesters, led by a enigmatically charismatic bear in a Che Guevara t-shirt (or was it a charismatically enigmatic Che in a bear t-shirt? The world may never know)  had been directed towards some direction opposite that of our heroes (Heroes? Isn't that a strong term for a bunch of misfits? Well, 'misfit's is already taken), it's amazing that Tigerman managed to gain lawful employment at the elusive Tiger International Channel, home to great programming like "This Old Tiger" & "The Adventures of Tiger & Tiger". The world's most respected journalists all watch "Eye of the Tiger News" and weep at its brilliance.

Having taken a long walk from MFUJ HQ Mark II until he reached the nearest city (over a hundred miles away),  Tigerman finally arrived at that place where magic happened, the building featuring the Tiger International channel studio. After spending a good thirty seconds pushing a door that was clearly labeled pull, he entered the lobby and asked the well mannered security chief how to reach the studio....  Seriously? where are we in Canada? People aren't polite. Just keep going.

Tigerman took the elevator to the office floor. Upon exiting the steel box, he found himself bewildered by the almost warehouse starkness of it all.

"Am I in the right place?" the dazed cat mused.

All along the walls there were posters for shows and movies like "Tiger Royale", "No Country for Old Tigers" and "The Tiger That Came in From the Cold". Windowless doors, desolate brick walls and a stack of garbage cans were all that Tigerman could find as he wandered the circular hallway. Eventually he bumped into a scrawny leopard who was lingering in the hallway.

"Excuse me," Tigerman said in an almost embarassed tone.

"Yeah?" asked the leopard.

"I'm looking for the head of Tiger International."

"The office is down the hall, that way."

"Thanks."

"Oh and don't be so nervous."

"Huh?"

"You look like you're about to have a heart attack. Don't worry. He's just a cat. They're all just cats."

"Ok..."

The leopard, with a wry grin, walked away.

Tigerman knocked on the wooden door of the locked office. After about 30 seconds of knocking, a balding cheetah let him in and through the secondary glass door that hid the nicely decorated office with hardwood floors. As he was admiring the decor, Tigerman was approached by a pantsuit wearing cougar with long brown hair (seriously? A cougar? Could the writing get any lazier?).

"Tigerman?"

"Yes."

"You made it after all."

"Yeah, I suppose I did."

"The boss is waiting for you."

"Ok."

She started walking further into the office area, leading him with her tail ( C'mon! You did not just write that! That is so wrong... yet oddly right. Dammit! Now you have me talking about it.)   As they turned the corner and pass a supportt beam, Tigerman comes face to face with the head honcho of Tiger International, a towering , imposing Tiger with a claw the size of a softball.

"Tigerman?"

"Yes sir?"

"I'm the head of Tiger International. Follow me."

Not wanting to anger the fearsome leader of the world's most successful feline owned TV channel in history, Tigerman followed the big boss to a small office area. The head honcho gestured for him to sit down and our favorite bass player sat.

"I understand that you were in a band?"

"Yes, sir."

"Uhuh. Do you have any experience working at TV studio?"

"No, but I am a quick learner. When I joined the band, I only knew one note but now I can play like a real beast...um, sorry. Didn't mean to brag."

"No, no. bragging can be good."

"Ok."

"Do you see a future with yourself at this company?"

"Yes?"

"Well, that's good enough for me. I'll contact you soon. I'm currently in the middle of a tough negotiation. I'm trying to acquire the Lion Network as well as Panther... well, you know. Business is business."

"Yes it is."

"I like you. You don't waste any words. Very concise and agreeable."

"mmm-hmm.

"I'll escort you out."

The next minute was an awkward stroll through the building, opening doors for one another and near silence. They finally arrived at the elevator and the head of Tiger International shook Tigerman's paw and wished him a safe trip home. The leopard was also standing by the elevator, still smug.

"That was fast," he said to Tigerman.

"Yeah...." replied the usually unlucky feline as he stepped onto the steel elevator and went back downstairs.

Everything seemed to be going well for the big cat until... Oh man, an 'until'!

The head of Tiger International received a call on his cell phone as he was walking back to his office.

"Hello...yes, yes. Tigerman showed up as you said he would....he was an insufferable nitwit, but I will honor our agreement and find him some sort of job here....no, I haven't forgotten what you've done for me. But this is the last time I do you a favor. After this, we're even. Ok. Goodbye...G Mod."

dun...Dun...DUN!!!!!!!!