Ok, there’s no fucking Tell The Tiger today, I’m tired ok? Tired of sorting out you guys and your messy fucking lives, and also just plain tired of this week and ready to throw the fucking towel the fuck in.
So all I’m going to do is post the following picture of an unbelievably hot mamasita with a really lousy tattoo.
Thank you www.holytaco.com, thank you.
Have a killer weekend guys!
-ST
Hey all you crazy kids!
I’ve let things slide on the site the past couple of days, but it doesn’t mean I love you any less ok? C’mere, let’s hug it out, there there…
So in return for being such a crap blogger of late, I’m going to recommend two things I’ve discovered recently VERY HIGHLY because I think they’ll better your life and that’s what Them’s Fightin’ Words is all about.
Ok, thing number one is a whisky I had the pleasure of tasting on Monday evening that pretty much melted my mind into a thick, gloopy mess it was so incredible.
It’s one of the whiskies that fall under the Suntory group (like from Lost In Translation remember? ‘For relaxing times, make it Suntory time’).
See, the story goes that in 1923 Suntory’s founder, Shinjiro Torii began Japan’s first whisky distillery in Yamazaki, on the outskirts of Kyoto. Ahh, Kyoto! I hear you say. Yes! Kyoto! The Japanese city famed the world over for it’s exceptionally high quality drinking water.
And any whisky drinker worth his salt knows that water is one of three ingredients that goes into whisky. See where I’m going with this?
In 1973, Suntory introduced a range of whisky called ‘Yamazaki’ and I shit you not, the Yamazaki 18 year old is some of the best whisky I’ve ever tasted IN MY LIFE.
AND at R1,300 a bottle, it’s dirt cheap!… Um… if you just won the lottery or robbed a bank or something…
The other killer discovery I made is the movie The Men Who Stare At Goats. I got my hands on a pre-release copy, how badass is THAT!
Yeah! Pity it was only the first 17 minutes of the movie, but MAN, those 17 minutes were so fucking funny I just about laughed my ass clean off, which is saying a lot cause 90% of the ‘funny’ movies I watch elicit a few chuckles and that’s about it.
Here’s an idea of how rad it is.
Opening scene: Close up on a guy with an immaculate grey moustache’s face. He is staring with unmatched intensity DIRECTLY AT YOU. We cut to a slightly wider, head and shoulders shot of the same dude, he’s sitting at a desk in army uniform, still STARING DIRECTLY AT YOU.
Fuck he is intense.
Cut back to the close up for a few more seconds. ‘Boone’ the guy says, ‘I’m going into the next office.’
Moustache-man stands up abruptly and sprints AS FAST AS HE CAN across the room only to collide with full force into the opposite wall.
He collapses on the floor and stares furiously at the wall.
‘Damnit’ he growls.
So probably what you need to do for a really fun night is buy a bottle of Yamazaki 18 year old and drink THE WHOLE THING whilst watching The Men Who Stare At Goats.
It’ll be a night you never forget… OR REMEMBER!
In other news, I’m going to win an X-Box, and not just any X-Box, but an X-Box Elite! Sometimes being the most badass writer on the face of the PLANET has its uses.
This is one of those times.
Until tomorrow.
-ST
I just want you to know that while I’m writing this ,my loving girlfriemd is tikling me relentlessly, trying to give me a wet wilkly, biting me and trying to slip a digit up my butt.
Which is why I’m sure you;ll understand, I cant’ blog today.
-ST
I did the craziest thing this weekend, I went back through this site, right back to the first post and systematically logged everything I wrote last year. I would have logged everything I wrote this year as well, but didn’t have enough time, I’ll get around to that tomorrow.
It was a really useful exercise though, it reminded me how much great content I’ve banged out over the 7 months since I started this blog and also gave me a whole bunch of ideas how I can streamline this site and make that content easier for first time visitors to find.
Meanwhile, I’m steadily approaching Post Number 200, an event I plan on celebrating by throwing a huge party with lots of midgets with serving trays full of cocktails velcroed to their heads. I’ve always wanted to do that, I think I saw it in a movie one time.
Post 200, to me, is like some kind of magical Shangri-La. They say after 200 posts you are able to achieve incredible feats like get 5,000 views in one day just by posting a picture of a bear in a tutu or achieve $15,000 in advertising revenue just by randomly writing words like NIKE! or KFC! in your posts, followed by exclamation marks.
But in all seriousness, I’m proud of how this blog is progressing. As is stands there is a solid core of about 350-400 people who are hitting this site everyday, which I aim to grow to 1,000 by the end of the year.
It’s been my life’s mission since as far back as I can remember to become a great writer and write a work of fiction that will make a lasting and significant contribution to human kind and this site is what’s going to help me achieve that goal.
But it’s nothing without you.
So thank you, wherever you might be, here on home soil or sitting somewhere across the ocean, for reading these words. They’re all I got right now, these crazy fightin’ words, but I know that if I can just find the right ones, and string them in the right order at the right time with the right people reading them, like a row of lucky sevens all falling into place, thousands of casino tokens are going to come spilling out of the one armed bandit that is life.
And then you’ll see midgets with velcro head trays, man-o-man 😉
Until tomorrow.
-ST
This week’s Tell The Tiger marks a whole new era in this little project of mine because, I’m proud to say, after receiving a whole slew of emails from guys, I FINALLY received one from the fairer sex!
Fuck! It was awesome, I nearly fell off my goddamn chair. It’s like when the girl from next door somehow figures out the secret codeword to get into the boy’s tree house where she then proceeds to skin you and your mates for all your pocket money in exchange for up a peak up her skirt.
What?! Like you wouldn’t have. To this day, Minnie Mouse never looked so goddamn adorable…
Where was I… oh ya, a GIRL wrote in this week and so I’d like us all to give her a warm, Tell The Tiger therapy group welcome.
Coffee’s free, but I see someone ate all the doughnuts. Nice guys. Very classy.
Right, so let’s get to it. Here’s what she sent:
Hi Slick,
I’m worried my boyfriend of nine months is cheating on me. We live together and I intercepted a message on his phone last week that said, ‘I want you so badly right now’ that came from a number I didn’t recognise. He didn’t seem bothered by it at all, and said it was just a completely random sms that went to the wrong number, but he’s been acting wierd lately and doesn’t have the appetite for sex that he used to. The thought of him with someone else makes me sick, but the thought of losing him is worse.
I read all his cell phone messages last week, but didn’t find any others from that number, he walked in before I could read his sent items though. He says he’s stressed from work and the long hours and that’s why he doesn’t want sex and that things will go back to normal once he’s done with the big project he’s working on.
Am I overreacting? I want to trust him, but that sms really freaked me out.
Confused !
Ok, Confused (I’m just gonna call you ‘Conny’ if that’s ok?).
Conny. To be quite frank with you, my tigey-sense (yes, I just did that) tells me there’s another side to this story that you’re not telling. You ‘intercepted’ a message on his cell phone? What are you, a GESTAPO SPY?
Never read a man’s cell phone messages or email inbox unless it is with his express permission. Did it make you feel good, finding that message? Did it feel good to snoop around behind your boyfriend’s back and read his inbox? Sure, maybe if you were a GESTAPO SPY it would have made you feel good, but I’m betting you’re just a regular human and it made you feel like crap.
As for the message itself, I dunno, it does seem a little peculiar. The only messages I’ve ever gotten that went to the wrong number have been ‘Please call me’s from people with names like Jabusizwe, Promise, and a guy I let sleep on our couch once for a few weeks because (according to his sign board at the traffic lights) the police arrested his elephant for smoking.
BUT it is entirely within the realm of possibility that someone just sent him the wrong message. Possible. Not probable. But possible.
The sex thing could definitely be work-related. When a man’s tired, he’s less likely to initiate sex and a lot of women don’t have the confidence to fire things up themselves because, let’s face it, men are usually horny bastards who need no encouragement.
Try initiate things if you haven’t already, if this still doesn’t work, at least give him the benefit of the doubt until whatever this ‘big project’ he’s working on is over. If things don’t spice up after that, watch for the following tell-tale signs he’s cheating:
In all seriousness though, there is only ever one rational answer to the question ‘Am I overreacting?’ when asked by a woman, and that answer is ‘yes’.
Confront him with your fears if this weirdness persists, you owe him that much. Otherwise let that sms go and always remember, if he thinks he’s found someone who is better than you, cut that stupid asshole out of your life and move on because clearly he doesn’t know a good thing when he finds it 😉
Hope this helps!
-ST
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Remember, if you have difficulties with life in any way, size, shape or form, you too can Tell The Tiger by simply mailing him on tellthetiger@gmail.com and he will do his level best to address your troubles or your money back!
I’ve got a weird obsession when it comes to collecting music trivia that can be matched only my my good buddies Guitar Jon and Mr. D, who could tell you what colour underwear Keith Richards wore when he played Woodstock ‘69.
But one of my favourite pieces of music trivia is about the Bob Marley song ‘No woman, no cry’ and was told to be by my good buddy Stikey on yet another nameless drunken night spent in a nameless drunken bar.
I love this piece of trivia for two reasons, one because basically EVERYONE knows ‘No woman, no cry’ and two because basically everyone who’s heard it has never given a moment’s thought as to what it means.
I mean, it’s not rocket science, right? He’s singing about how if you don’t have a woman, you won’t cry, ie. cut the bitch loose, problem solved.
Sounds a little cynical for a man who dedicated his life to spreading the message of peace, love, understanding and respect to our fellow man, no?
Damn fucking right it does!
As it turns out, the original version of the song was sung slightly differently than the live version which made it famous. In the original, Marley was singing, ‘No woman, nuh cry’ which becomes hugely significant because the word ‘nuh’ is Jamaican for don’t.
He’s not saying ‘No ho = no heartbreak’ he’s singing a song to his wife Rita, telling her not to cry for him when he leaves.
Originally I’d heard that he recorded the song during the self-imposed two year exile he took from Jamaica after the politically-motivated assassination attempt on his life, but the dates don’t add up right.
All I can surmise is that the song was recorded during a time in his life when he was travelling abroad to record overseas.
He was on a mission that man and even though I’m not a huge reggae fan, I respect Bob Marley because he was a true prophet and a man who changed this world for the better and who’s music will exist for as long as we do.
He was a great man. He died at 36, and his last words to his son Ziggy were, ‘Money can’t buy life.â€
Money can’t buy life.
-ST
You know it’s time to get a new drummer when the one you’re using goes onstage to accept an award and is so wasted that instead of making an acceptance speech, he just stares silently at the audience for a full nine minutes.
Not that I’m judging, fuck, I think it’s brilliant! Even though it happened way back at the 2003 NME Awards, when the infamous Black Rebel Motorcycle Club drummer Nick Jago went onstage to accept the Best Video award, the story refuses to die. It was a perfect ‘fuck you’ moment in rock and roll history and one that perfectly defines this band.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club have been around a good ten years, during which time they’ve recorded six studio albums, all of which, in my humble opinion, have been surprisingly excellent.
There’s just something about this band’s garage rock meets blues meets psychedelic 70s rock meets folk revival that really speaks to me and always has.
Put it this way, if you’re looking for music to drink whisky to while you drown the memories of the last beautiful and bad-hearted woman who crossed your path, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is the band for you.
Needless to say, I have every album they ever recorded (except the instrumental one, The Effects of 333, I don’t do instrumental albums, they creep me out) including one of my favourite albums of all time, the masterpiece that was 2005’s Howl. It’s loaded with more references to the Devil than a Quaker sermon, but hot damn! You know you’re onto something good when the first line sung is “Time won’t save our souls…â€
The new album, in a lot of ways is more of the same. They had to cut Jago loose a second time and they replaced him with a girl (Leah Shapiro, formerly of The Ravonettes) but she sure as hell doesn’t play like a girl.
What you’ll find on this album is the same mixture of hedonistic, booze and drug fuelled old school rock that this band has made a name for themselves playing. There are no major curveballs on this album, there are no ‘what the fuck was that?’ moments and I’m totally fine with that because there’s enough depth and song writing skill in BRMC to keep things interesting without having to reinvent the wheel.
Let’s be honest for a moment here, how could you not love a song like “Conscience Killer†(track 2) which drives like a Royal Enfield and has the lines “I’m a fine line teaser / Never been nothing but a cheater / I’m a son of the night / Give me a little room and I’ll spit in your eye.â€
“River Styxâ€, with it’s snaking bassline is also instantly likeable. It oozes evil as it slinks through the shadows of Hayes’ droning vocals and the sick, grinding tones of his squealing guitar riffs. It’s a masterpiece of sleaze.
But you’ll find quieter moments on this album as well, reminiscent of Howl. Tracks like the gospel / revival folk ballads “Sweet Feeling†and “The Toll†prove that there’s a lot more to this band than a bunch of songs it’s fun to get roaring drunk to.
Singer and frontman Peter Hayes’ voice has changed a lot over the years and you can hear it on a track like “Sweet Feeling†where his voice effortlessly hits five or six notes, clear as a bell in one sustained legato.
Of course there are a couple of duds which mar this otherwise great album – “War Machine†and “Half-State†for example, both of which insomniacs the world over should be grateful for – but it is very seldom that an album is without duds.
My rule of thumb is this – if an album has four killer tracks on it or more, you’ve got your money’s worth which is exactly what you’ll get with Beat The Devil’s Tattoo. It isn’t going to win any major awards, it isn’t going to make a huge or lasting impression in most people’s lives, BUT it is going to make a great companion the next time a girl fucks you up and like a good friend, it will tell you what a bitch she was and party with you till you’re good and drunk.
Final verdict: 8/10
Recently I’ve noticed that a lot of people around me, friends, family work colleagues, etc. are breeding at an alarming rate. I attribute this to the general decline in quality TV programming and the decision-impairing properties of hard liquor.
Add to that potent mix the proliferation of lewd sexual material in the mainstream media and the decline in morality suffered as a result of that, and conditions for breeding baby humans start to look very favourable indeed.
And so I decided to write a step-by-step guide on raising, feeding and caring for baby humans. In this way I hope to help people who are either currently raising baby humans, or still growing them inside their wombs, waiting for the miracle that occurs as the foetus descends into the pelvic cavity and its head and shoulders pass through the bony ring of the pelvis, much like a bowling ball through a balloon knot.
Step one: Environment
The first thing you’re going to want to secure before you bring your baby human home is a suitable environment.
As a rule of thumb, a 48 to 53cm baby human should be kept in a 55 gallon tank. This will allow the baby human enough room to run around and exercise and yet not have to run too far to catch its dinner.
As the baby human grows, so should its enclosure. I would recommend no smaller than a 70 gallon tank once the baby human has grown to 70-80cms and a 180 gallon tank once it has grown to 100-150cms.
Most baby human shops should stock a varied selection of bedding for your baby human, but I would strongly recommend taking my advice when it comes to the following items:
Step two: Diet
Feeding your baby human will require you to handle all manner of food stuffs including raw vegetation, insects, and small mice.
Baby humans are omnivores, meaning they will eat veggies and small animals. Insects, however, should definitely be a daily staple of your baby human’s diet should you want it to grow up strong and healthy, with a robust exoskeleton.
I would highly recommend feeding your baby human a combination of the following:
Step 3: Alarming behaviour to watch for
First time human baby owners often overlook subtle behavioural disorders that occur due to their ignorance on the subject.
When raising a baby human, be sure to be vigilant of the following behavioural disorders:
By following these three simple steps you should experience many years of enjoyment with your baby human after which time it is highly advised to rerelease them into the wild where they can follow successful careers as lawyers, accountants, life insurance salesmen or PR consultants.
-ST
Fahk, today was a car crash.
Didn’t see that comin’ did ya? Ol’ Slick calls the post ‘Today Was A Car Crash’ and then launches right into the opening sentence, ‘Fahk, today was a car crash’!
Hahahahaha! Um, why am I the only one laughing?
On the way to work this morning I saw two taxis all fucked up, twisted out of shape, people (dead people?) being packed into ambulances and driven to state hospitals to get nasty infections.
I drove on in the driving rain and I turned my fog lights on. I don’t know what I hoped to achieve by doing this, but it made me feel marginally more safe.
The whole day, my guts have been melting. They feel like hot coals inside me. The weekend was a harsh mistress and all I can say is thank the good lord that J-Rab was stone cold and able to get us from A to B cause I probably would have been lousy at it.
Friday night we headed out guns blazin’. Bottle of tequila on the backburner and a pile of beer you could build a fort with. We hit The Barbarian’s place first, then Da Vinci’s for the best goddamn pizza I ever tasted, then a house party with some good people, and a man, we’ll call him The Giant, who had hands that were so massive he could probably break your skull if he ever flat-handed you.
He reads this site everyday, The Giant. He said it keeps him sane on days when office life is too boring to handle. My life had a lot of purpose in that moment, and everything, everything was worth it and I guess it still is.
It was his lady’s birthday party and I arrived sprouting tequila like a leaking ship.
It’s not rocket science. If you’re going to a party where you don’t know a lot of people, take a bottle of tequila. The people that drink it, make friends with those people. The people that don’t drink it, tease them until they drink it, then make friends with those people.
No one remembers you this way. But somewhere down the line you’ll be at another random do on another random night and a person from across the room will call out, ‘Hey! You! I know you! You’re the Tequila-guy from that party that one time…’
We drove to Komemtjie after the party, we snuck into my aunt’s house, passed the hell out and slept like dead people.
Saturday my cousin, Captain Albatross, woke me with a beer and a firm pat on the shoulder. ‘Cuzzy’ he said to me, ‘come let’s talk.’
We sat on the upstairs balcony in my aunt’s old comfy blue chairs, sipping cold beer and watching the cloudshapes changing with time and he told me about his crazy night and I told him about mine.
I kicked a soccer ball with The Captain’s kids and taught them to strum a few chords on the guitar. Dylan is a natural. All of seven years old and already he can count a solid 4/4 signature. I could make a rockstar out of that kid.
We ate mountains of braaied meat and it was good. Jimmy’s marinade was the clear winner that day. We drowned everything in it, even the boerewors and fuck me it all tasted like sticky, glazed heaven. I ploughed through a lot of it and afterward I lay on the grass and didn’t do or think of much for a long time.
A few hours later, J-Rab drove us back home and I dozed like a kid in the passenger seat, waking only when we went over bumps, then gazing through half-shut eyes at the spaces where ocean and land met, those brilliant white beaches along Baden Powell, the greeny-blue ocean the sun reflecting red off the mountains.
We ate at Buena Vista that night with The Loub, a good meal, good company, good times. I kinda wished I wasn’t already half dead at that stage. Energy was hard to come by, it had been a long day.
Sunday I got up late, sat on our balcony and played my guitar for 2 hours to a rapt audience of Anatolian Sheep Dogs. The low chords made them growl and the high chords made them howl. I felt like a demon guitarist, dragged back out of hell to play auditoriums full of growling, howling animals for all eternity.
Not a bad gig come to think of it. Better than rolling a rock up a hill.
I met a man who reads this site from time to time on Sunday afternoon. We’re working on a project together, something that’s going to blow people’s fucking minds.
And that’s really where this is all leading up to.
There are things, big things, in the pipeline for this site. I’m stepping up and calling a couple of shots for once and if this works, if I can actually manage to pull this one off, you’ll be proud to stand and be counted as one of the first people that found this crazy, fucked up place.
‘Oh yeah, SlickTiger?’ you’ll say, ‘I was following his blog WAY before …………… happened. Yeah, those days he used to write differently, like he was talking to us, like it was a private conversation. We liked his stuff mainly, but sometimes he clearly had nothing to write about, so he’d just write about his own life.’
‘We enjoyed some of those posts…’
It’s happening people. It’s all coming together and I couldn’t be happier 😉
-ST
Wow, this week’s been too crazy guys, too fucking crazy so I chose a nice and short problem to NAIL rather than some long, drawn out, deeply psychologically troubled mail to deal with gently… tenderly… lovingly…
This week’s problem comes from a guy who likes to call himself “Jeanunderpantmanâ€. Um… okaayyy.
Howzit Slick,
I’ve gotthis major problem where I prefer jerking off to havign actual sex with my girlfriend, its just feels tighter and better. Do you think if she lets me try anal it weill be better? How can I convince her to try it?
Jeanunderpantman
Jeanunderpantman (I’ll just call you JP), lemme just say congratulations. Actually managing to start your computer, READ this site, REPLY to Tell The Tiger with an actual email (though shockingly spelled) and SEND it without incident couldn’t have been easy.
Pat yourself on the back. You have done well.
As for your problem, I have a few solutions:
1) Send us a pic of your gf. There is a good chance that you prefer fucking your hand because SHE’S UGLY AS SIN. If she is UGLY AS SIN, riding the Hershey Highway might temporarily make sex with her better, but in the long run you’re probably going to have to trade her in for a better looking ho, yo.
2) If she isn’t a total GROT OTTER as it were, the problem might be that her lady garden is a little loose. Has she had kids? How many? Be honest with me here dude, I can’t help you if you aren’t straight with me. Of course, the other alternative is that your cheloger is too small. Probably kill yourself if this is the problem. No one likes a man packing a silk worm.
3) You could be a cock smoker. Test this out by turning off ‘Safe Search’ in Google and typing ‘ripped gym boys’. I made that mistake once. I’m blind now. You might really enjoy it though, in which case you should probably swap your lady for a lady-boy. I hear Thailand specialises in them.
Hope that helps JP, let us know how everything pans out for ya buddy.
That’s all for this weeks Tell The Tiger, peace out party people and have a killer weekend!
-ST
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Remember, if you have difficulties with life in any way, size, shape or form, you too can Tell The Tiger by simply mailing him on tellthetiger@gmail.com and he will do his level best to address your troubles or your money back!
