Aren't they fricking cute? My cousin has a gator-chicken farm. He raises the chickens, and when they die off before he can sell them, he throws them into a round concrete pit full of hordes of cutie-pie carnivores. When the gators grow up, they can be eaten, in turn, or made into handbags. Egg to chicken to gator to purse; that's the circle of life.
Maybe the gators keep attacking to protest their loss of dignity. But I think in Florida, we like to tempt crisis. As soon as the technolgy is there, I fully expect us to build bubble houses right on the Everglades, to be drunk and dunk our heads in the swamps as the winds kick up to gale force, to die by the thousands as we ransack the last bastions of nature.
I mean, why else would we keep throwing up suburbs in Gator Land?
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