It was a dream come true: I finally secured tickets to the taping of my favorite television star, Oprah Winfrey. Securing the tickets, as one might suspect, wasn’t as simple as filling-out an online questionnaire; on the contrary, securing the tickets meant contacting one seedy, shady — and every other synonym for seedy and shady that one could think of (or even find in a thesaurus) — person after another.
When I had nearly given up hope — indeed, my dog’s name was Hope, and I almost gave her away! (a double entendre, to be sure!) — a man by the name of Iron contacted me. His voice was smooth, sultry. He was very convincing, too. “Do you want the tickets or not?” he smoothly said, and in quite the sultry voice. “…yes,” I ellipsed and then replied.
And there I was, exactly one Oprah Winfrey ticket richer. Although, I had spent an exorbitant amount of real world dollars, so in a way I was a ticket richer but five-hundred and twelve dollars poorer. As it happened, that was the exact amount I pay for my one bedroom, no bathroom cottage; or rather, used to pay, as I no longer had the money to cover my luxuriant living quarters. In fact, after this, I would parade around the streets screaming and shouting, “No quarter! No quarter!” I remember that a young boy began questioning his mother, asking her why the man with flame-red hair (meaning me), felt the need to make the rest of the world feel lousy that he not only hadn’t a quarter to his name, but didn’t have a place to live, either. “What?” the mom said, looking up from her cellular telephone and unplugging the ear pieces that she was using, presumably to listen to music. She blew an enormous bubble of gum from her lips, popped it, and just stared at her son. Her son stared back. I stared at both of them, eager to learn what the mom would think.
“Don’t you get it, mom? It’s a double entendre. Why else would the man repeat ‘no quarter’ if he didn’t mean he had no money and no home?” Mom and I exchanged glances; mom scooped up her son and ran away. I smiled. That was the second double entendre of the day, a new personal record.
I skipped along happily now, and made my way to Oprah’s television studio. I got in the line for waiting, and did exactly that. What seemed like a fever dream only moments before was now a reality. The usher ushered us inside, and I took my seat. The room quickly grew quiet, and Oprah appeared on stage.
Now that I’ve brought you up to speed, here is what’s happening as we speak:
Oprah invites her guest on the stage. I don’t recognize him, but apparently he’s written a great book. Blah, blah. They just keep talking about nonsense; I’m almost drifting off to sleep! Suddenly, a buzzer begins buzzing. I look left and right, and notice that everyone else is looking around, too. Oprah is standing. She tells us to look under our chairs to find our surprise.
I reach my hand under and feel something warm, soft; what is this? Without warning, a man begins screaming. I pull my hand away, quickly. I look towards the man and there’s a tiger devouring his face. My legs are pushed upward and out leaps a tiger from underneath my chair. My tiger (yes, my tiger: it was under my chair) begins devouring the back of the woman’s head that is sitting in front of me. Tigers are everywhere, devouring everyone. The screams are really intense. I find them slightly annoying, too.
I get up and walk out. My tiger had no intention of going with me, so I let him keep on eating anyone it could find to munch on. I hear a growl and spin around. “Stripey!” My tiger has decided to follow me. We quickly find that mom that ignores her son and Stripey devours her. The boy says thank you and runs off. We visit Iron and devour him, too. I get my money back, which Iron had left in an envelope on his kitchen table.
We walk back home, just Stripey and me.