Crikey! Crocodile Hunter Dead

I still remember the first time I saw Steve Irwin, AKA "The Crocodile Hunter". I was in spook school at the time, and my classmate, "Tom", was flipping through the channels and said, "Hey, look at this guy wrestling a python... What an asshole." Surprise surprise, now he's dead.

[In this case I could be talkin' about the ol' croc master, or I could be talking about "Tom". WTF was he doing watching The Discovery Channel when we've got all the secret files about the alien landing and the Iran fuckin' contras sitting right at our disposal? Besides, what's wrong with someone pursuing the development of a useful skill? No surprise when "Tom" caught a cyanide dart in the neck right before graduation. But I digress...]

Death comes as no shock to someone in my line of work. We see it every day, whether we're poisoning the Lucky Charms of the corrupt despot of a rogue regime, or taking care of a 6 year old beauty queen who knew too much. Still, when you see a man taken down during his prime years of wild animal wrangling, it tends to leave a knot in your throat (take that from a guy who knows what an actual knot in your actual throat feels like).

So farewell, my croc hunting friend, farewell. I'll catch you on the other side of the Styx, motherfucker...