Watching Steve's take on wildlife programming was like watching a version of National Geographic that was raped by Mtv's 'Jackass.' Clearly this guy was not as sharp as the teeth, claws, or barbed tails of his many victims, but at least the Discovery Channel served as a sort of sex offenders registry to warn viewers of the existence of this particularly unrepentant animal molester.
When Steve attempted a few years ago to feed a croc with raw meat in one arm and his one year-old in the other, I watched the footage in a sort of bemused horror and wondered if someone somewhere was compiling a list of similarities between Steve and Michael Jackson, that other famous child-endangering, serial exploiter.
Sadly, we all saw Steve's end coming, and we all cheered him along just the same. I would guess many of even the most conservative gamblers have lost money over the years betting him dead many times over by now. It's no secret that newspapers kept his pre-written obituary on file squarely at the front of the cabinet. By some accounts, an engraver received the order years ago for the plaque on Steve's Darwin Award, for which he had nominated himself in virtually every encounter with the natural world.
Today the world says 'rest in peace, Crocodile Hunter.' I say, rest in peace from Steve, all you crocodiles, stingrays, and every other manner of creature on this planet.
Although it was being reported that Steve
did nothing to intimidate the animal, the fact that he managed to hurdle
incredible statistics is very telling. Steve invariably pushed his
luck around animals, and that he was killed a manner that defies probability
speaks loudly to which end of the bell curve we're dealing with here. Chance
played little role. To describe this death as a freak accident is
to be surprised by someone getting struck by lightning while making a career
of storm chasing with a giant metal rod held aloft like a huge middle finger
to common sense.
Copyright 2006 Ale[x]umed.
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