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That summer night was especially calm, with no clouds in the sky, the moon was full and the stars spread themselves in the empty spaces like chocolate rice on the side walls of a cake. On a balcony of a budget hotel in Kirribilli, facing the Admiralty House, two relaxed guys were making themselves comfortable, each with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A six-pack of Heineken and two packs of Longbeach 40s were placed nicely beside a porcelain ashtray on a glass table. A clay vase with fake Waratah stems was situated beside the glass table for decorative purposes. The two guys sat there in silence, admiring the calm night. Once in a while, soft, cool breeze made its way through the stillness of the balcony.

An English guy in his early 40s shortly made his way to the balcony with a mug of hot tea in his left hand. “Hello sinners!”, he uttered as a gesture of welcoming himself. His intention of being there was to have a smoke or two. The three strangers quickly got acquainted to one another because they share the following characteristic; professionals, avid smokers, love Australia and are still single. Well, and of course, they share the same shitty hotel. Duh!

It turned out that the English guy was originally from the English north western city of Manchester. From their conversation, a much disputed rumour was found to be quite true. “Fuck Manchester United! A team for conglomerates! Us working class people, the real Manchester people support Manchester City. Nuff said!”, said the Englishman.

The three of them were really caught up with their conversation. One or two cigarettes became eight to nine each. Then suddenly, there was a huge gust of wind sweeping the whole area and of course the balcony where they were loafing. The three guys were caught by surprise. It was a terrible gust of wind.

Immeadiately, like an act based on impulse, the first of the two guys shouted at the other, “Secure the Heineys!!!”

Then the ashtray dropped and shattered on the floor, vomiting cigarette buds and grey ashes, which were quickly dissolved in the wind. The clay vase with fake Waratah stems was on its side, cracked on impact with the hard-tiled floor. The packs of Longbeaches were thrown down the balcony and made its way to the streets.

After a long few seconds later, things were again, calm and peaceful.

The English guy realigned his thick rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. He then turned his head to the second guy. The second guy was still holding the half empty six-pack tightly under his arms, not showing any signals of letting go.

The English guy then gave a final smirk for that night, “Definite sinners!”

To place your head in the perfectly fitted rest, waiting ardently for the shining blade to come down. The blade will then be dropped, but it felt like it was floating down like a feather in a windless field. Just as the mind was wondering on pleasant memories, the head dropped. Eyes twitching and rolling. The spasm of the face muscles. Only for a few seconds before the eagerly intended darkness.

Sometimes it’s hard to explain the choices that have been made. Sometimes the objects of yearning are obviously treacherous. But yet, proceeded with the numerous self-inflicted demise. If I were a cat, I wouldn’t have any lives to spare.

Ultimately, because losing is amusing, then you’ll always see me falling in love with the guillotine.

The hot list keeps on growing but should it really bother the tiger? He has been whipping the iron since he was 3 years old (or was it 2?). And he has made it to the pinnacle of the tremendously boring sport. So honestly, in my opinion, he’s in this shithole because he had lost his period of adolescence. He has no childhood friends. He didn’t even get invitations to parties, not until he became famous. And furthermore, a Swedish blonde marrying a black guy with a Thai mother and is really good in playing golf? Get out of here! What if Tiger was just a high school janitor who occasionally plays golf?

If I were to give advices to the tiger I would firstly tell him to be friends with David Letterman. Do a tell-all interview. Have a whole episode with just Dave and Tiger. And of course Paul and the CBS Orchestra. Name the episode “The Late Show with David Letterman: ‘Tis Just Tiger”. Tiger needs a friend that understands the need to spread the love. They can trade notes and poke fun at each other’s expenses. Do it all out without the tears or guilt. Which reminds me, Tiger, stay away from Oprah, her tears-cursed couch and her overly enthusiastic audience.

Secondly, enroll yourself in a sex addiction clinic. There’s no shame in doing so. David Duchovny did it. Michael Douglas did it. Even the obnoxious Russell Brand did it. I’m pretty sure that deep inside Tiger was a Russell Brand quote, “Fame is a Wonka golden ticket to the pussy factory”. I know I’m right and I understand you.

So, major sponsorships are withdrawing. Well, I’m sure there are new opportunities looming behind this (over-rated) mishap. The picture below explains it all.

tiger rubber

Finally, get back on course man! The good guys are always backing you up. The PGA awarded you player of the year and Associated Press named you ‘Athlete of the Decade’. Just do what you always do and continue to be good at it. Occasionally, you could drop by the LPGA events and be a guest commentator or a volunteer caddy. I think it’ll be a good thing, Tiger, lady golfers & 18 holes.

The bottom line, move on you boring people!

Apart from a generally homicidal day, late in the evening I found Syd in my office. He was sitting on my chair and had a frown on his face. When I came closer I realized that he was panting as if he had just walked up 10 storey flight of stairs. A drop of sweat was running down his temple. His eyes stared blankly through the oblivious pixels on my computer monitor.

What the fuck? Weren’t you a chirpy lad a few hours ago?”, I began the somewhat lame conversation with a provocation.

He just sat there in silence. I reached out a pack of Pall Mall’s from his shirt pocket and lighted up a menthol cigarette.

I don’t think I’ll be having dinner tonight. I wanna go on a diet”, he replied, lethargically after a few seconds.

Huh?!” I then noticed that he was holding a nail clipper in his right hand.

He then slowly turned his head towards me, face still with a frown as if it was begging for a nice, tight slap.

When we were eye to eye, he uttered, “I’m having a hard time bending down to clip my toe nails.

He then lifted his shirt and continued, “I had to unbutton and unzip my trousers halfway to do so.

Minty smoke continued to flock the nearly deserted office space.