The novel is the tiger.
You are Roy.
You try to tame its unruly themes and run-on sentences by tapping said 'novel' on the nose with a Pilot G-2 rollerball pen, but the the great beast of would-be fiction just leaps up and disfigures you for life.
(My lame boyfriend says Siegfried and Roy jokes are in poor taste, but clearly tigers are our superiors and should not be trifled with. R.I.P. Tatiana! Also, tigers were my dearly departed grandfather's favorite animal. To the point that he had a Schillcraft latch hook rug with the face of a tiger emblazoned across its fibery surface. Also also, I am leaving for Vegas in about an hour so perhaps you can understand the tie-in.)
I swear I am mostly a nice person.
Poor Roy. He loved those tigers.
Yours in exceedingly poor taste. Thank you.