A Time to Mourn

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Esq)

     Let us come not to praise Cecil but to bury him. At least, the pieces that are scattered around Walter Palmer's den in Minnesota. But let us also mourn what Cecil represented to many: A $45,000,000 safari industry in Zimbabwe that is now on hiatus thanks to the untimely slaying of Cecil's brother, Jericho.

     I have a heart. After all, I, too, have a brother named Cecil, although he'd make for very poor sport, considering his asthma and unhealthy addiction to fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. When we'd play hide and seek around our father Ambrose's mansion with my cousins Astor and Cedric, we'd find Cecil every time and he'd look at us with those doe-like eyes and that deer-in-the-headlights look then wet his pants, which didn't exactly endear him to the staff.

     But anyway, this is about the other Cecil and the blow to private industry he represents. And now, thanks to the badly-timed shooting of Jericho, the only thing separating his brother's cubs from the alimentary tract of another rival lion (Seriously, old man, you couldn't've waited a month or two and contented yourself with shooting squirrels with a .22?), rich, white big game hunters are now on a par with Bill Cosby and Donald's Trump's hairdresser.

     With Zimbabwe's suspension of big game hunting around its famous preserves, wealthy Caucasian males will now have to go to Africa's other 53 undisputed countries.

     And what's this world coming to when rich, white men can no longer simply go out and kill something with impunity? The bribes we pay each year alone would float your typical spear-jiggling African nation for a decade. Walter Palmer's $55,000 could've built a city on the fucking Serengeti.

     Poaching from Africa is a proud Caucasian-American tradition that goes back centuries before there was an America. When Dutch slave traders would engage in their own extreme version of hide and seek with the indigenous population in the 15th century, they couldn't have realized they were building a new world that would be based on cotton, tobacco and whatever else we could whip the slaves into growing or picking for us.

     Africa, historically, has been a one-stop shopping center for wealthy whites with erectile dysfunction issues and no prospects of making an honest living. White Man-ifest Destiny, as I like to call it, builds nations, economies and, well, destiny even if we have to coax the work being done by those who bring it out with the occasional whip.

     I recall once back in 1965, our father Ambrose took Cecil and me to Kenya, the president's birthplace, for a big game safari. Oh, what a week that was! I still recall Father, his pith helmet atop his head, cigar proudly jutting from his face, looking like a character from a Hope and Crosby Road movie. He'd paid some local poachers the then princely sum of $1000 to find us a rare black panther. The movement named after them was just gaining steam and Father wanted to make a point by mounting the beast's head on the wall of his office just above his head and behind his office chair, draping the fur before his expansive mahogany desk. It would've been for the benefit of his black employees who were getting troublesome and uppity by asking for an extra nickel an hour.

     Anyway, we were tooling around the Serengeti in our jeep and Father was just about to take a sip from an ice cold martini when our driver stopped and alerted us to a black panther about 150 yards straight ahead. Cecil, who by this time was only five, was thankfully able to hold his water, mostly because he wasn't the one being hunted.

     So Father huffed and puffed his way out of the back seat of the jeep, struggling to chamber a round in his new 30.06 while our guide Zimbeebe acted as a spotter. Then the unexpected happened.

     I still to this day do not know how a man can shoot off his penis with a 30.06 but somehow Dad managed it. He was so excited he wasn't watching what he was doing and didn't realize the safety was off. The next thing any of us knew, he was bent over and howling while the panther's attention was now fully captured. As it began stalking us, Zimbeebe helped Dad into the jeep and drove like mad to the nearest hospital in Nairobi.

     The thing we remembered seeing was the panther, a magnificent female, contentedly chewing on Father's severed member as we backed away. From that point on until his passing in the 70's, Father would turn his wooden globe over in our den, find the Dark Continent and sadly sigh, muttering, "Ah, I didn't need it anymore, anyway." The following year, he'd hired a professional big game hunter, had him kill a black rhino and had the tusk surgically implanted where the Blubberpuss penis once was.

     While Father was convalescing in the hospital, he wired his brother Osrick to cut short his sex tour in Hispaniola to come get us and take us back to Upper Manhattan. And there's a lesson to be learned in all this: Namely, that white men can and should reasonably expect to have their brothers watch over their young, a luxury we just can't give to lions like Jericho.