Breaking news. Not always terrorism. Sometimes it’s a murder-suicide, sometimes it’s a lover’s quarrel. Maybe a drug buy gone hinky. Sometimes maybe the plane blew up on its own.
The old man was really upset because, yet again, another magazine had gone out of business and so he wouldn’t be covering the annual Caliente Bare Dare 5K. Wear as much or as little as you like, “although shoes and sunscreen are recommended.” It is Florida after all. He was thinking a tailored hazmat suit himself. The sun was not his friend.
He wondered how many of these women would be worth the eye strain. He imagined dicks and boobs, pale and saggy, moving in slow-motion. The race determines the National Champions of Nude Running. 813-996-3700. You can run the race and then spend the day at the resort for forty dollars.
The old man admittedly somewhat curiously anxious, maybe anxiously curious, couldn’t decide which or why it mattered, he wanted to see the trophy. Probably bronze.
The old man was, of course, hoping for a press pass. Saturday Night Fever was originally a magazine piece. Throw in a murder or some hot babe goes missing at the far end of the course. Or both. I’m thinking cult classic.
The old man had paid scant attention to the story of the four-hundred-and-fifty-pound gorilla, killed to protect a little boy. One news story referred to the event as a “rampage” by the simian. YO! He was in his own house.
The APE LIVES MATTER! movement sprung up immediately. The old man felt conflicted right away. Loved other people’s kids, five at least. So far.
He was among the few who realized he was also an animal. A wild dog in his case, but that’s something else. Some may call it a character flaw. But the ability to sense a bad guy at a hundred yards or more downwind is a good thing. At the least gave him a headstart.
Very little difference between a great ape and a three-year-old child. Especially the offspring of parents with inadequate focus. The kid was in danger, doubtlessly that giant monkey could crush the kid’s skull like a coconut. With one hand. The kid was in danger doubtlessly and the gorilla was killed by authorities. Only option, the authorities said.
Isn’t this how life goes? You are swinging around the jungle, wild and free, maybe you got your own harem of shortie apes, smoking buzzy dried bananas, next thing you know corporate types put you in a cage on another continent and sell tickets. Like Disney Land and Guantanamo Bay had a love child.
Nobody loved animals more than he did. He swerved for caterpillars. But he had a rule, just one, you come into my home without invitation, you will be seen as a trespasser. You will be eliminated posthaste. Goes for burglars, rats, hotel security, spiders, unemployed relatives, cockroaches. That’s the short list, just for starters.
The next time a kid falls into the gorilla cage, authorities should execute the parents. On live television. Yeah, that’s it. Feed mom and dad to the lions. Turn the execution into a pay-per-view fund-raiser for PETA. That’s the ticket, sure. Make America Great Again.
The old man was confident, you would soon see fewer unattended children at the zoo. And the next time – because there will be a next time – there always is, let the kid take his chances with the ape.
Maybe, hold it, here’s another idea. Send the parents in to rescue the child. They could be naked and like Mom can divert the ape’s attention while Dad snatched up the little boy and clambers to safety.
Maybe he goes back for the wife, maybe he doesn’t. Now that’s some compelling television.