Another nearly xenophobic station signal I receive, WTVE, from Wilmington, just another ghetto striven enclave of row homes, is a retro-throwback broadcast, playing 1960 Japanese analog series I evidently should not have viewed as a child in the assassination rife year of 1968. The B grade tenor of the works falls into the category of fascination with vomit while alienated by Huffington Post Live's millennial chatter, however relevant to those spaces in films we do not see, jump cutting the pace of ennui. The station also airs stomach churning veterinary surgeries, and in one episode, a brawny gator farmer rushed an alligator with a colon blockage into surgery, and the veterinarian euthanized the reptile on the table after dumping its fecal waste it a pan.
How much did this cost the farmer? Wouldn't it have been more humane to shoot the creature and freeze it, ensuring death? We all have affinities, and without truly intending to disparage the farmer, there is going a bridge too far. Gators and crocodiles lay lots of egg clutches, easily replenished, and going through all that evasive butchery for a primitive fresh water predator seems beyond the pall, while we have a fairly affluent dentist behaving like a fugitive. If there is anything on the face of this earth that makes existence an irreparable folly, it is an animal surgeon dumping fecal blockage and then destroying what he couldn't save, much as what we did to ourselves years ago.
I mourn Cecil, and hope his brother managed to defy the odds, as his tracker asserts, but this isn't really the point. The point is we're asinine stewards unable to manage our own innate impetus. I do not know what doctors told my parents in 1963. I know the story, as in countless other disability tales, I was supposed to die, and African Americans seem predisposed to help me right along with that, intimidating me back into being exploited for their economic benefit, while I lie struggling with withdrawal, losing to years of psychic pain, and no one will do for me what in animal medicine is standard.
I have to endure literal crippling agony, persecuted by motherfucking assholes who can't get better jobs. Zoologists dart and track and study. Industrial farmers engage in wholesale slaughter to keep chronic impoverished failures like me alive, and, in the conservative codex, I am one of those women without children whose fury Walter Palmer is attempting to evade.
But turning Palmer into an effigy isn't going to solve a fundamental exigency. The only thing left to poach when habitat is gone and magnificent stalkers like Cecil are confined into domesticated paradigms for which they were not evolved, are humans, already preying on ourselves. I just can't see my way to optimism of any sort. If I did not mention that kimmy my foster rescue isn't a royal pain in the ass, now might be the time, weary with the responsibility of pet rearing. One I let her go, it is probably over, the degree to which my lifespan might be considerably brutalized by that point.
Perhaps the meritocracy will surprise me, and rescue the manufactured urban spastic racist gradually decelerating, but I'll never be the same as I once was on the ascent.
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