there are many truths: those that are without us and those that are with: the list at McSweeneys mentioned bottles of red wine late into the night and fighting depression, along with ham sandwiches in the park. The latter not being late at night, while both substituting for pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.
The premier Gdubya said may the author of liberty guide us. And then he went on and on about tigers. Look: that tiger’s got a long neck and spots, and that one over there is just a lump of grass, and that other one looks suspiciously like a precocious child—but you better watch, it’s eyes’ll getcha when you’re least expecting it. And the puffy-tailed fox-raccoon with the hairy eyes is a conspirator. They’re out for us. He kept saying in that comedic tejas drawl as his head grew filled with zoo animals. Look at that crazy ground tiger climbing them wires. If you pitted a single tiger against a whole army of turtles armed with throwing stars...
I am not asleep. There are the truths that we make to stand in for the truths that others suggest, and they all have little letters. I am not sitting at the bottom of a well with a pack of matches and my sore hands. I am not a train station in Indiana or the girl I thought could easily drink a gallon of milk.
Nobody ever sneezes at the end of a presidential speech, so I’m glad he changed his choice of words but the tigers in the grass and the tigers that are not striped but wearing wings and the lion that started this all and spiderman, even, who is called a tiger at the end of that second movie--they are all vicious and unforgiving.