I raced a tiger and I’m still here, I smoked’em! Not to say I’m unlike all things you did and didn’t mention, I’m fully aware of the dying thing.

Man, in a couple hundred years, ain’t nobody gonna give two cents about me or you, we won’t even count as history. You know you’re nothing when you don’t even count as history.

Did I say (type, same thing around here) smoked the tiger? I mean I smoked... and then I saw a tiger. But I didn’t have to run because the tiger was a cool cat and had a bottle of whiskers, I mean whiskey. Face full of whiskers, bottle full of whiskey—that’s what it had (and didn’t have). Between a few meows (because drunk tigers don’t roar) and a few puffs, I passed the kitten a spliff, had’em all purring like a cat, the cat poured me a shot and we got smashed together and then went chased around a buncha tail. Boar’s tails, of course.

Now then, where’s my tip, Libert? Pay up!