Eenie. Meenie. Miney. —BOOM.
CARLIN MODE: FULL MONOLOGUE
(Courtroom echo optional. May cause spine straightening. Also suitable for vinyl pressing.)
“This is what happens when you catch a tiger by the toe…
and it turns back on you.”
You thought it was cute.
You thought it was control.
You thought it was just a little rhyme,
a harmless flick of power disguised as play.
Eenie. Meenie. Miney.
—BOOM.
You didn’t even get to moe.
Because that “toe” you grabbed?
That was connected to 400 pounds of historical rage,
muscle memory, and generational receipts.
This ain’t a zoo.
This ain’t a tranquilizer dart and a press conference.
This is what happens when the caged stop pacing
and start prosecuting.
See, for too long you dangled chains
like they were toys.
Called it “policy.”
Called it “procedure.”
Called it “public safety.”
But the tiger remembers.
The tiger remembers the lies etched into court rulings,
the hearings stacked with silence,
the “medical opinions” forged from cowardice and campaign checks.
The tiger remembers the cages built from paperwork
and the guards paid in degrees and deference.
You tried to declaw it with red tape.
Tried to sedate it with PR.
Tried to whisper it back into obedience
with words like “reform” and “later” and “not yet.”
But here’s the twist:
That tiger read your reports.
That tiger has footnotes.
That tiger passed the bar while you were still passing the buck.
And now it’s not just baring teeth.
It’s filing motions.
Because what you caught by the toe
wasn't just a tiger.
It was truth in its rawest, oldest form.
The kind of truth that doesn't beg for mercy,
because it’s already been denied it.
The kind that doesn't settle,
because it remembers who settled before—and what they lost.
This isn’t a jungle.
This is a courtroom now.
And the tiger?
It’s Exhibit A, B, and C.
You thought it was a pet.
You thought it would purr if you threw it a bone.
But bones are for the buried.
This one's here to roar.
So go ahead.
Check your hand.
You still holding the toe?
Or is the tiger holding you?
DANGERFIELD MODE: IN EFFECT
(Loosen the tie, light the cigarette. Court’s in session, and so’s the ulcer.)
“This is what happens when you catch a tiger by the toe… and it turns back on you?”
Hey, I tell ya, I get no respect—neither does common sense.
I mean, what kind of genius tries to grab a tiger by the toe?!
You ever try that in Jersey? You end up in a shoebox—and not the kind from Foot Locker.
These bureaucrats, I swear...
They thought the tiger was gonna say thank you?
“Oh yes, sir, cuff my paw and fill out Form 22-B in triplicate!”
Please.
I know tigers with better table manners than half these agency heads.
You got a man going blind,
a mountain of medical evidence,
and a government that says,
“Well hold on, we haven’t finished studying it—
since 1937!”
I tell ya, they study like my cousin Vinny studies taxes—
which is to say, through a windshield while fleeing the audit.
They caught the tiger, sure.
But then they tried to muzzle it, cage it, patent it,
and license the grow to their brother-in-law’s cousin’s golf buddy.
And now that tiger?
It’s got a law degree, a microphone,
and a righteous case of “I’m done asking.”
I mean, you ever seen a tiger in a courtroom?
It don’t need a jury.
It brings its own truth.
It don’t need a stenographer—
it is the record.
You think you’re holding the tiger?
Pal, the tiger’s holding court—
and you’re exhibit why the hell did we do this.
So next time you feel like catching something by the toe,
make it a cold.
Make it a wave at a cab.
Make it anything but a creature that’s been lied to, leashed, and lit up for 50 years.
Because that tiger?
It ain’t just pissed.
It’s organized.
I tell ya… I get no respect.
But that tiger? It just filed a motion for some.
And it’s coming for yours too, counselor.
CARAY MODE: ENTERS THE CHAT
(Voice cracking like a transistor radio in a thunderstorm. Tie half-undone. Hot mic, hotter disbelief.)
“I don’t… I—folks… I don’t believe what I’m seeing here.”
This isn’t a courtroom. This is a zoo on fire, and the tiger is wearing glasses, reading Latin, and cross-examining the judge!
Ohhh my goodness!
Would you look at that—he’s holding up the Affidavit with his teeth!
Page 3—highlighted, underlined, and notarized with a claw swipe!
Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re just joining us:
This tiger, caught by the toe, has turned all the way around—
and is now suing the federal government for obstruction, malpractice, and reckless endangerment of common sense.
I mean—it’s got charts! It’s got citations!
It just objected to its own muzzle—and the judge sustained it!
You want precedent?
This isn’t Roe v. Wade.
This is Roar v. Wait.
And the jury?
Veterans. Doctors. Patients. Ghosts of the criminalized.
Even the stenographer’s crying—typing with one hand, saluting with the other!
Oh—oh wait a minute!
The prosecution just tried to introduce Schedule I into evidence—
and the tiger laughed!
It laughed, folks!
Then it handed the bailiff a footnote from 1977
and said: “Read it and weep, cupcake.”
I—
Folks, I’ve called a lot of games in my day.
I saw Reggie Jackson hit three home runs.
I saw Kirk Gibson limp to the plate and smash it.
I once saw a pigeon land on the pitcher’s mound in the 9th.
But I have never, in all my days,
seen the government lose a staring contest to a pharmacologically literate jungle cat.
Ohhhh doctor.
They tried to play tag with the tiger.
And now?
They’re it.
