I’m going to be honest — I had a hard time coping with the news of Steve Irwin’s death. I couldn’t sleep for days, and I secretly plotted to blow up all of the seven seas in an attempt to rid the world of foul creatures like stingrays. They’re a burden on our oceans, and they’re cold-blooded killers that will stop at nothing to ensure all our famous wildlife television personalities have their lives cut short. Steve Irwin was 44 years old, a devoted husband and loving father, who swam with sharks and touched deadly snakes and crocodiles and shit. What the fuck have you done with your life? Can you see why I was so depressed by the news of Steve’s unexpected, unconscionable death?
Steve’s show was about more than just a hyperactive manchild running through the wilderness fucking with nature and begging to be mauled or poisoned. Sure, it was fun to watch at three in the morning after a long night of bong hits and diner food, but it was also about education. How else are children going to learn about jumping on top of reptiles with powerful jaws and capturing them? How else would I have learned that the Nile crocodile is the world’s second largest species of crocodile in the world? For fuck’s sake. Won’t somebody please think of the children?
I would appreciate it if everyone left a short comment in memory of Steve. I will forward all the responses to whatever e-mail address Bindi or Terri provide on their website. If you want to make a donation at your local synagogue, just tell me the name and how much you donated, and I will forward that information along to Bindi and Terri as well. Godspeed, friend.
