So, what’s up with panda bears, anyway?
(Yeah, no farting around the bush tonight — I’m cutting right to the chase.
Except… well, now I’m all distracted, thinking about what the hell ‘farting around the bush’ means. Where did that come from?)
Anyway, panda bears. Now, panda numbers are dwindling, out there in the wild, and that’s sad. Seriously, I want to go on record, right here, as being against killing pandas for their tusks. Or their blubber, or their panda-hair toupees, or whatever the hell we’re poaching them for. That’s bad. Bad, naughty poachers!
On the other hand, there are some people out there trying to help panda bears. This often seems to involve bringing the pandas into something called ‘captivity’, which might involve a zoo, or a nature preserve, or something like that. Probably not a pet store, but maybe — I’m not really clear how these things work. But somewhere without poachers — I’m pretty sure that’s the important bit.
So, these folks whisk the bears off to safety, and truck in a bunch of bamboo, or coconuts, or Frosted Mini-Wheats, or… I guess I’m not really much sure what pandas eat, either. That’s okay — it’s not really important right now. The point is, these panda bears get set up with a pretty sweet deal — three square fibery meals a day, yummy fresh water, a little space to roam around, and lots of fresh, poacherless air. Ah, but that’s not all.
You see, once we snare these bears and set them up in their little pandapartments, we give them one job. One job, dammit. Make more pandas. That’s all — just lumber in there, get biz-zay, and pop out some panda pups to keep the species going. Is that so fricking hard?
Well, apparently, it is. From what I understand, we have a hell of a time getting these pandas to get ‘friendly’ within our friendly confines. It’s not easy getting Ling Ling and Chuang Chuang to do their ‘thang-thang’, if you know what I’m saying. Seriously, what does it take to get the ugly bumpy bears to bump their bare uglies?
(Yeah, I worked hard on that last one. See how I spend my weekday nights? That’s dedi-fuckin-cation, people. You gotta represent.)
So, here’s the thing — put yourself in the bears’ place for a minute, and you’ll see how ridiculous this really is. Imagine that something similar happened to you. Let’s say you’re just walking down the street or sitting on your couch, minding your own business, and suddenly there’s a tranq dart in your ass, and you’re down.
Now, when you wake up, you’re in a new house. Nice porch, nice yard — the neighbors are a little nosy, and there are thousands of ’em, every day, but otherwise, it’s not a bad spot. And then whoever’s in charge tells you that they’re sorry to inconvenience you, but there’s a huge crisis, and there are, like, ninety people left in the world, and this is the only way to keep you safe right now. And they’ll feed you, and keep you washed up, and make sure you’re entertained and comfortable and all of that. And oh, by the way, would it be any trouble for you if we bring in a member of the opposite sex, so you can propogate the species together?
See, I’m thinking — assuming your panda schwing swings that way — that it’s a pretty damned sweet deal. Eat, drink, sleep, and get it on occasionally for the good of your people. Only they won’t. What the hell is that about? Sure, all the people and the cameras watching all the time would be a little unnerving — I understand that. Assuming you’re not the panda Peter North, I can see where you could have a bit of performance anxiety.
But come on, now — this is the only way the species is gonna make it. Seriously, how heinously hideous would your prospective partner have to be for you to say, ‘Unh-uh. Not gonna do it. Screw my kind — screw all of my kind. Except that one. Not gonna happen.‘ Really, people. We’ve all got standards and all that shit, but in that case? If it’s got something in the right neighborhood of arms and legs and noses, then I think you’ve gotta take one for the team. You don’t have to brag to the other pandas about it later — but shit, if you don’t get in there and get it on, there won’t be other pandas to tell. It’s not fricking rocket science.
I’m beginning to wonder whether we’re capturing the right pandas, frankly. Maybe all we’ve got in our zoos and shit are the unboinkable duds. The losers. The dweebs. The panda Poindexters. And somewhere out there are the panda gigolos, with their gold chains and their pimped-out panda rides, pulling all the panda wool. And those are the bitches getting poached. Dammit. Isn’t that just our luck?
Ah, well. Sucks for the pandas, but I guess there’s a bright side, at least for me. If the human race is ever put on the endangered species list, it looks like I’ll have a nice new home in the zoo. I sure hope they have dirty magazines.Permalink | 4 Comments