Of Lockers and Evangelists, Not Hydraulic
Of Lockers and Evangelists.
That’s what I tried to name my tiger cub, but the rest of the owners vetoed my brilliant name suggestion. They named him Hydraulic instead. He’s dry and encased in impudence, probably because of his stupid name. I warned them.
That name indelibly spills impudence all over the little guy even after I tried to gently point him down the path of lockers and evangelists. But that’s life. Some times you poignantly divide the voters and sometimes the voters just gang up against you like a hungry carnivore that wants to eat your arms. Much like the tiger will want to do once he grows up and finds out that you named him Hydraulic.
I think I need to move to New Mexico before the tiger grows up enough to understand what a stupid name he has, so I can escape with my life. I hope he doesn’t hunt me down like a bulldog hunts down a great plankton feast. I’ll have to leave him a note telling him that I wanted to name him something else, and it was the rest of the guys that forced Hydraulic on both him and me.
We’re both the victims here. Sure, he’s much more of a victim, since it’s his name, but I’m still a victim because of the way he’ll eat my fingers off when he finds me hiding under a lemonade stand in Albuquerque.
Yes, I will have tried wearing a mild perfume to throw him off the scent, but he’s far too smart for that. How can you hide from Hydraulic, the perfect hunter? You can’t. You have to face him like a man and accept your fate. And if you’re facing him like a man who smells like perfume, then expect a long speech about honor and dignity and cross-dressing before he finally goes through with eating you.
And when you’re dead, I hope you’ll realize that tigers deserve names involving lockers and evangelists, or at least hallways and tobacco executives. This poor naming must stop before we’re all dead from being eaten by tigers.