The tiger penis was very unhappy. It had lived inside the power of poured light and had played a full electric guitar of muscle and bone, visiting stunning lady tigers, and had felt their growl in love making and their blunt goodbyes. Now it was in a bowl, leaking its sadness into a room in a tea farm retirement cabin for a Communist Party official, who picked tender girls to pick the tender leaves of the tea plant, and made them drop their Mao Pantaloons in front of him in his cabin. They were lady tigers, though he could no longer do anything but look.
He ordered a tiger penis. The horrified faces of the tea girls made made him extraordinarily happy. He knew they did not believe in his cold war ideas, nor did they like him or respect his view of history. The tiger penis was more of an aphrodisiac for the ideas he found comforting during the casket decade of life, than for any possible effects on his party weasel. A liberal disbelief in the virility of ideas that nearly destroyed the world made him want to drop the pantaloons of a future that probably would empty chamberpots on his grave.
Ms. Syrup had once shot large animals from a helicopter. She sat on a conservative news stage making fun of the liberals, talking guns and values. She chatted about top dogs deserving lower taxes. She told a story about shooting big game. The old cold warriors on the stage imagined dropping her pantaloons. She thought for a moment that perhaps she had forgotten to wear pants, she patted herself to make sure. The old men made her uncomfortable, but she was well paid.
Ms. Syrup functioned as Tiger Penis for the conservative news. Her mental pantaloons were easy to pull down, and the old men leered at her, and savored the disgust on the faces of liberal women, educated women, and any women who refuses to be a virtual tiger penis for their lost political manhood.
If only Tiger Penises could talk.