My Golden Calves No More

Hello.
The experiment failed miserably and well sorry. I may finish the rant about Krispy Kream some other time, but for now enjoy this.

I love animal shows. Ever since I was a wee tot I would instantly become entranced and engorged in a television show whenever I saw a person donning an all kaki (including the socks) attire, as if to suggest that they are the parcel service between the African Sahara and my living-room; and they are indeed my only outlet of correspondence from suburbia to the wilds of nature. I love these shows so much that I even watched a show called “Sunrise Earth” for ten minutes until I figured out that no one was narrating the show, and all the show entailed was the sights and sounds of buffalo grazing at dawn. It wasn’t completely my fault. Most of the narrators on these shows will pause to enable the audience to soak in the majesty of Mother Nature for colossal chunks of time before resuming their chronicling duties, which always made me wonder how I could get a job narrating a wildlife show.

The other day I was browsing through the TV guide menu, and I found a show called “Austin Stevens: Snakemaster.” So of course I had to give it a shot. I clicked on the channel and the fist thing I saw was a man swing from an enormous vine, jump off of it into a body of water, return to the surface gasping for air while wrestling a large snake and saying, “this snake has the 3^h worst venom of all snakes in the area and could easily kill me” in his tuff Australian accent. Needless to say, I was won over faster than a fat kid is to the idea of cake for breakfast. The man released the snake and it swam away unharmed and apathetic. This godlike man went on to capture four more ludicrously dangerous serpents using insanely absurd stalking and pouncing techniques like flying head first into the world’s 14th most poisonous snake’s underground layer. As impressive as these acts were, I noticed something about all of the Aussy’s captives. They were complacent, completely lacks with their surrounding like a pothead after inhaling a dime bag. Not to take anything away from these people that I formerly thought of as near idols, my golden calves, but the animals they are snagging from the wild are type-B individuals. They are the laid-back, dreamers of the animal kingdom. I want to see some of these people ensnare a type-A lion after it’s had a quick fix of some antelope meat or a neurotic cobra with ADHD. I think I am taking a break from these shows until the real men show up with a pocket knife, a wrench, and some floss in hopes of trapping a tiger with a meth addiction.