My dad had a pretty effective way of inducing tipping back in the depression when I was eight or nine years old. He had a wooden recepticle cut out and painted like a cat. (except, as I remember it, it was green.) Then he'd put the thing right in front of me. I played the fiddle with the orchestra whenever my mom would let me. (One time when she didn't check it out too close, we had an engagement at the American Legion Hall when the featured entertainment was a stripper. She did a tap dance right in front of my chair as she was finishing up.) We made a lot of tips that way. I noticed that they never cut me in for any, though.

If you haven't got a eight or nine year old kid, maybe you could borrow one from a friend of yours.

Spud