He’s a Crock

 

 

You know that jerk on TV, the crocodile hunter; I call him the crocodile teaser. I want to see him swallowed whole on his show in front of an audience of millions. Recently, the no-good glory hound dangled his own baby as raw meat in front of a huge crocodile to up the ratings because after a time, people tire of a stupid, sawed-off Aussie guy in shorts who looks like the Dutch kid who plugged the dyke with his thumb, baiting, teasing and tormenting a drugged, captive big lizard for money.

  

  

The crock teaser’s wife, after the baby stunt, said something any intelligent mother whose three-month-old child had been endangered for profit would, something like, “It was wonderful, the vibes and all those teeth.”

Why don’t you put your head in the crock’s mouth. Better yet, climb inside.

I’d like to see the crock crunch into the teaser, see the terrified look on his face at a stunt gone wrong. The crock then enters a pond, the teaser’s two legs dangling from its mouth, and with a smug grin, submerges from view.

After the crock eats the guy, his wife coos and says, “It was marvy…..what vibes…that eating thing.”

I’ll take the crock teaser’s place.

I’ll call myself Stag Fury.

The show will be principally for the ladies. I’ll come out in a leopard-skin G-string, with a black belt studded with silver spikes, after applying Vaseline to my biceps, shoulders and legs. I’ll subdue various helpless captive animals that stagger about after being administered overdoses of Nembutal, with freeway traffic clearly visible in the background.

What we need, and I’ll pitch this to producers, is a show so vile, so tasteless, so utterly lacking in any redeeming features, as to make the Roman Coliseum look like tea with Mother Teresa.

The show will be sponsored by the insurance industry.

We’ll call it “Raw Crap.”

On another matter of importance, my study of the most despicable, mean-spirited towns above 50,000 population in the United States is done, and after picking five finalists, the winner is, Fresno, California.

Fresno won, edging out Peoria, Illinois, because Peoria has one decent restaurant. Fresno has none, unless you count the Basque Hotel down at the abandoned train depot, but that’s run by foreigners who speak a strange language and claim to be the Lost Tribe of Israel.

Several categories were considered, but Fresno proved unique in that it has the highest percentage of white trash middle class social climbers who live in tract homes, and hate because they want to become rich, and haven’t made it.

In addition, Fresno boasts mindless sprawl, virtually no nightlife, and street gangs from every country (including Byelorussia as well as former headhunters from the jungles of Asia), excepting only the islands of Frigate Shoals and Lesbos.

That’s hard to beat. Congrats Fresno! 

 


 
 
 
You know that jerk on TV, the crocodile hunter; I call him the crocodile teaser. I want to see him swallowed whole on his show in front of an audience of millions. Recently, the no-good glory hound dangled his own baby as raw meat in front of a huge crocodile to up the ratings because after a time, people tire of a stupid, sawed-off Aussie guy in shorts who looks like the Dutch kid who plugged the dyke with his thumb, baiting, teasing and tormenting a drugged, captive big lizard for money.

The crock teaser’s wife, after the baby stunt, said something any intelligent mother whose three-month-old child had been endangered for profit would, something like, “It was wonderful, the vibes and all those teeth.”

Why don’t you put your head in the crock’s mouth. Better yet, climb inside.

I’d like to see the crock crunch into the teaser, see the terrified look on his face at a stunt gone wrong. The crock then enters a pond, the teaser’s two legs dangling from its mouth, and with a smug grin, submerges from view.

After the crock eats the guy, his wife coos and says, “It was marvy…..what vibes…that eating thing.”

I’ll take the crock teaser’s place.

I’ll call myself Stag Fury.

The show will be principally for the ladies. I’ll come out in a leopard-skin G-string, with a black belt studded with silver spikes, after applying Vaseline to my biceps, shoulders and legs. I’ll subdue various helpless captive animals that stagger about after being administered overdoses of Nembutal, with freeway traffic clearly visible in the background.

What we need, and I’ll pitch this to producers, is a show so vile, so tasteless, so utterly lacking in any redeeming features, as to make the Roman Coliseum look like tea with Mother Teresa.

The show will be sponsored by the insurance industry.

We’ll call it “Raw Crap.”

On another matter of importance, my study of the most despicable, mean-spirited towns above 50,000 population in the United States is done, and after picking five finalists, the winner is, Fresno, California.

Fresno won, edging out Peoria, Illinois, because Peoria has one decent restaurant. Fresno has none, unless you count the Basque Hotel down at the abandoned train depot, but that’s run by foreigners who speak a strange language and claim to be the Lost Tribe of Israel.

Several categories were considered, but Fresno proved unique in that it has the highest percentage of white trash middle class social climbers who live in tract homes, and hate because they want to become rich, and haven’t made it.

In addition, Fresno boasts mindless sprawl, virtually no nightlife, and street gangs from every country (including Byelorussia as well as former headhunters from the jungles of Asia), excepting only the islands of Frigate Shoals and Lesbos.

That’s hard to beat. Congrats Fresno! 

 



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