The problem is, though, that this article ignores some essential facts, and repeats what’s become not only a common Western-centric environmental “line” over the past 150 years, but also represents a form of eco-colonialism. Frankly, I’m not convinced the loss of top predators actually will spell ecological disaster. Furthermore, I find it similarly hard to believe that the economic benefits gained by tourism outweigh the potential development that could result from a reduction of the wild environment in favour of urbanization.

Apex predators in the now developed nations have mostly been extinct for years. In the case of Europe, wolves, lions, bears, and other creatures harmful to humanity have been reduced to extinction or near extinction levels over the course of 2,000 years of civilization building and urbanization. Surprisingly, this didn’t lead to the total collapse of the ecosystems of Europe, but rather… the development of hitherto unseen levels of population densities, wealth, and societal expansion.

When wilderness areas are reduced, and are instead replaced by human-useful developments like farmlands, living spaces, industrial areas, etc, society has room to grow and expand based on its own production capabilities. Forcing African nations to forgo those benefits to protect wildlife essentially requires them to operate at the mercy of flocks of international tourists and the influx of cash they bring into the local economies.

And that’s the frustrating thing that goes on here: I think in many ways the most severely developing nations, like those in Africa which play host to so many of nature’s remaining mega-fauna, are essentially being forced to forgo their own development. The international community of western nations, the already developed nations, are by the force of their economic influence reinforcing the east-west, developed-undeveloped paradigm. Specifically, tripe articles like this inspire an insipidly sentimental protectionist attitude in the general populace of western nations, who then, through their wildlife tourism and general political influence, bring about policies in their home nations, and in developing nations that protect the wildlife there at the expense of development.

So countries in Africa and and parts of central and east Asia can’t develop, because they’re being told by westerners, coming from countries that long ago killed off all their big, impressive animals, that they can’t develop. That they have to remain essentially giant game parks, so that wealthy westerns can come ooh and ah over the magnificent lion, while the natives play as guides and live off dollars a day. Those same westerners can then go home and complain about how their tax dollars are once again being sent in foreign aid to support undeveloped nations abroad. Like industrialisation in the face of recent environmental issues, countries that are trying to develop are being told they don’t have that right, because of the harm it’ll do to the planet… by countries that did the exact same thing 100 years ago, and have spent the last 100 years enjoying the benefits of just such a process.

I’m not saying the lion isn’t going extinct. It certainly seems like it is. And I’m not saying the lion should be going extinct, it’s a magnificent animal, and probably well worth protecting. But I am saying it’s hypocritical and frustratingly eco-colonial for western nations (and the media of those nations) to insist it’s the responsibility of undeveloped nations to protect those animals, especially when the costs are so high to those developing nations, and when the imposing developed nations have such a poor track record of their own.

Nay, said I, nay, a thousand times! I shall not lie down upon the cold stone slab of destiny and accept my fate in so meek a fashion as this! Rise up! Rise up, and fight! Rally under the banner of truth! Justice! And freeeeeeeeeeeeeedoooooooooooom!

So, I went and took my chair back. There was yelling. There was even some muted violence. But I feel satisfied with a job well done. And as far as I’m concerned, this isn’t just regaining stolen property. No, this is liberation. This is like the Iraq War. This is when we took out Saddam Hussein, except this time, the locals were glad to see us. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a hero.

And a comfortably seated one too, now.

All the parents of the village used to warn their children, make sure you do as we tell you, or the troll will get you! Make sure you study hard, or Gertrude will come for you! So all the little children, frightened by the looming spectre of doom from outside the mountain, always made perfectly sure to behave as they were expected so.

One day, however, as Little Boy Blue skipped along home to his hut under the frost-bourn crag of the southern embrace, he heard a noise behind him. And as he turned to see who was there, Gertrude pounced! Out from behind a rock she dashed, and caught Little Boy Blue up in her arms, and bounded away.

Out through the entrance to the Village Under the Mountain she ran, fast as the wind, Little Boy Blue trailing behind her grasped tightly in her meaty arms, his pale blond hair flapping in the wind. Up, across the sunny meadow and down the vale, and through the trees, over the babbling brook, and deep into her cave she took Blue, where she proceeded to lock him up in a cage, so that she could start a fire and cook and eat him.

As she threw the logs on the fire, in eager anticipation of her coming feast, little boy Blue begged with her. “Why are you going to eat me?” he called, “I’m just a boy! And besides!” he pleaded, “I’ve never done anything wrong! I always did exactly what my parents told me! Why didn’t you steal away one of the naughty children from the village?!”

This surprised Gertrude, because she had never imagined that she might be expected to eat only naughty children. Indeed, she wondered how she could be expected to know in what manner her dinner had behaved at all! All poor Gertrude knew was that she was hungry, and the children of the Village Under the Mountain were so delicious that she could not resist.

While both Gertrude and Blue were together considering the startling revelation that everything they had thought they understood about life was not quite as it seemed, back in the Village Under the Mountain, frenzied action had begun to take place. The parents of Little Boy Blue had noticed their son was missing. Rallying the other village folk, who realised their own children were also at risk, the good people of the Village Under the Mountain decided they needed to act. Their mutual survival demanded the destruction of Gertrude!

And so, gathering their pitch forks, and setting alight their torches, the people of the Village Under the Mountain swarmed out of their homes, and into the streets. Through the great passage out of the maintain, and across the dell they travelled, all the way to the edge of the forest.

However, the forest looked very dark and foreboding, and at this point some of the villagers began to ask themselves whether this was really the best course of action for the village. Maybe, they said, it wasn’t so bad! Their children weren’t taken, and if they tried to get little boy Blue back, they might be killed in the fight! Then who would care for their homesteads? Who would mind their crops and raise their children?

A tremor of fear ran through the assembled throngs, and not even the heroic words of the village elders could convince them all to stay. And so some of the villagers departed, back to their homes, to huddle in fear and await their destinies from beneath the hearths of their ancestral houses. Others, however, steadied their beating hearts, and summoned their courage.

Swirling like a cloak of ethereal mist about the group, fear and determination mingled, infusing the air with mutual dread and excitement. As they forged on through the woods, and drew nearer to Gertrude’s lair they could see obscene, twisted tree shapes, looming in the darkness, and could hear what they imagined must be the screams of the suffering victims. Or else, the howls of the monsters that existed within the woods, on the very fringes of their perception, outside all boundaries of what they knew as normal. Until finally, en masse, the village people burst into a clearing!

The light from their torches cast a flickering nimbus amongst the tattered leaves of the long, low trees, banishing the darkness, and the moonlight, alike. Their presence filled the clearing, and infused it with their sense of righteousness, and exclaimed their absolutism to the wood and all its inhabitants. Gertrude must die, so that they might live!

So that the children of the Village Under the Mountain could go to sleep at night without fear!
So that never again would innocent people face such a fate as Blue.
So that goodness would be restored to their world.

From within her homely lair, Gertrude could hear the crashing exclamations of the village folk, feebly calling for the vengeance they so rightly deserved. And gathering from within herself the same indignation which she faced from outside, she collected her spear and club, and went to meet her foe.

And the assembled mass of the village people was mighty, and lo, Gertrude saw herself outmatched by her opponents. Truly, the force of their convictions overwhelmed her, and lusty battle was had, and much blood was spilled.

When at last the final blow was lain, and the last pitch fork fell to the ground, out of the hand of the lifeless peasant who had wielded it so ably in anger, the torches, too, quenched and ceased to bleat their exclamations of brightness. For indeed, it was morning, and even had they continued to burn, their energy would have been wasted amongst an unknowing crowd of dead, deafened, as it was, by the cacophony of the sun.

Hers, after all, was the brighter light, and it shone more truly than the pitiful torches.

*     *    *

And so victory was had, amongst the trees and the rocks and the creatures of the forest and the vale and the mountain. And Gertrude never again bothered the citizens of the Village Under the Mountain, and Little Boy Blue never again feared for his life as he frolicked in the lush and verdant valley of his existence, between the village he knew, and the forest that threatened him.

And above all and sundry, the sun shone down, upon that happy day.

Claims They Could Cause Downfall of the Empire
In her recent visit to New York City, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, addressed throngs of her most disobedient subjects, in the vast hall of the United Nations General Assembly. And while the wildly cheering masses had little idea what to expect from the first monarchical visit to the Big Apple in over three decades, few could have predicted the Queen would address a topic so directly related to the lives of the teeming masses across the world who live within her dominions.

The subject of her Highness’ tirade? Flip flops. Otherwise known as thongs, these backless sandals seem innocuous enough to some, but for the ruler of the British Empire, whose prescience is part

of her divine right, the future looks glum for a world power that continues to permit such perversity. Indeed, the Queen predicted that flip flops, and the decline in British values that they represent, could even bring to its knees the mighty Empire itself, and cast into darkness all its considerable territories, and the citizens who live within those dominions.

Americans, naturally, have significant interest in this warning, having held their title as Errant Ingrate Colony of the Empire for several centuries now. Nevertheless, many in the crowd seemed unaware of the danger ahead of them, and audible gasps of shock were one of the most prominent forms of reaction from the crowd, second only to screams of undulating adoration.

Her Majesty’s three-part plan for the future of footwear in the Empire included mandatory executions of all flip-flop wearers, and a general ban on the production and ownership of backless footwear across all the royal dominions.

This is not the first time the Royal Family has taken a strong stance against an article of clothing, and is reminiscent of Prince Charles’ campaign against Bermuda shorts in the late 1980s, which led to mass riots and the deaths of 134 unfortunately clad vacationing tourists.

And sure, it’s all fun and games when you’re carrying away a friend playing your “wife” through a pool of water, and over artificial hurdles, but who’s going to have the last laugh when some nefarious Nord decides it’s time to put those skills to the test where they really count? Who will save your women on that day?! I can well imagine some slack-jawed sucker chasing after a tall, blond Northerner, buxom brown-haired wife tossed carelessly across his broad shoulders as he runs over hill and over dale.

Sure, we expect this kind of behaviour from the vikings, who after all, are just reconnecting with the traditions of their pillaging fore-bearers (you should see the contests those guys had, back in the day!) but the Americans? Just because they weren’t as able to carry a wife as efficiently as a European, doesn’t mean they didn’t try as hard. And tell me, how comfortable are you in knowing that a fellow American is representing your country in a sport founded by local thug and actual woman-thief, Herkko Rosvo-Ronkainen?

I don’t want to tell you how to run your country, pal, but if I were you, I’d look into this. If you’re going to keep at it, you might as well become number 1, right?

Dan asked, “do we exploit our blogs?” here, to which I answered the following

Maybe not my best work, but pretty on par for the crap I come up with, I thought. Who could object to that? And I was right! Nobody objected to it. I did, however, receive this comment in reply:

(I’ve politely decided to mask the respondent’s identity for her own protection. I’m decent that way.)

So there you have it! BranmacFeabhail usually finds me annoying! (whoops… protecting her identity… my bad… forget I said anything. And certainly don’t go say mean things in the comment section of every post of hers…)

Anyway, I thought that if our anonymous commenter feels that way, others might as well! It’s only fair that I give them the same chance to express themselves. So, I’d like to do just that. Each and every single one of you! Go ahead. Tell me exactly what you think of me, positive or negative, in the comments below, and I’ll try to respond in a rational and logical way, and we can all have a productive (and dare I say it… fun!) discussion.

Go ahead! Try it now!

Rate That Fruit – I post a picture of a fruit, and you rate it! Fun for the whole family.

The Story of Bob – Enthralling saga (note: this term may appear more than once here. It applies to so many things I write) of a man named Bob.

News – In which, short on imagination, I play at the news syndication game!

Creations of Catchphrases – Where I look at the origins of some of the most commonly used phrases in the English language! A cunning linguist’s dream?

Fantastical Fact Frenzy (also known as Hexadic History Hiatus) – based on the Scientific American series 60-Second Science, except for history.

The Banker and the Bomb – probably the oldest nikbv series, and one that hasn’t been added to in years. Originally something of a mystery story, that then morphed somehow…

Name that Xangan – in which I imitate some of the more famous Xangans, and you try to guess which one!

Poland, obviously, had a separate economy. But, it was closely linked to Germany, so it had a bit of a dragging effect. So anyway, things were tough in Poland. I wanted to leave the country for a while, ride out the economic storm. The problem is, all the European economies were linked to some degree. They all traded with each other. There was only one exception…

Soviet Russia.

Made an international pariah by its embrace of communism, it was essentially a stand-alone economy. An island. It didn’t suffer through the 20s, and it didn’t experience the depression in the same way, because nobody would buy or sell from them.

So I wanted to go somewhere isolated from the international community, and Soviet Russia was right there.

Of course, as you are no doubt aware, at this point the borders of the Soviet Union include what have since become independent republics, namely Ukraine, and Belarus. As a result, the Polish border touched that of the USSR. So, it was a simple feat to slip across the border into the great hinterlands!

Didn't I tell you they were close?

One night I just went out into the streets, wandered around until I smelled borscht, and kept going. The following day, I was in Moscow!

The heart of the Soviet Empire! A thriving Metropole in Cosmopolitan Russia. The air was thick with culture, and revolutionary zeal. The purges, famines, and collectivization of the late 20s and early 30s were still years away, while the horrors of the Revolution and Civil War were well past. In fact, it was the middle of NEP, or the New Economic Plan! Business was booming in the USSR.

People were rushing about to and fro in the Moscow streets. If I remember, it was a chilly day.
Of course, Poland doesn’t have the same clime as Moscow, so that could just have been my foreigner’s impression. It was fall, so no big winter coats yet.

I had passable Russian at the time, so I wandered into the nearest cafe, and ordered some beef stroganoff. While I was sitting there eating alone at a small table in the centre of the room, a group of young Russian soldiers came in. Obviously green, they were boisterous and noisy.
I tried to ignore them, but as you’re no doubt aware, I was extremely attractive back then, and they wouldn’t leave me alone!

There I was, sitting in the cafe, when one of the soldiers comes over to my table, and asks if he can sit down! Now, normally, I’d say no. He wasn’t great looking, and soldiers in the Russian army were infamous for, well… some unfavourable attributes I’m sure you can guess at.

But, I had forgotten to bring any Russian money with me. All I had were Polish złoty! So, I figured I might be able to talk the soldier into paying for my meal. It was a good plan. A daring plan. A plan that would end up going terribly, terribly wrong.

I managed to get the young Russian keep talking to me, though my Russian was pretty broken. I think he didn’t care what I had to say, really. I managed to entice the soldier, and he did pay for my meal. So, as I got up to leave he offered to show me around the city.

Remember, I had not only never been to Moscow before, but had nowhere planned to stay for the night! I had no other source of information, so I agreed, and the two of us set out.

We wandered around down the streets. He led me through a series of winding and circuitous routes, and my bearings were soon completely lost. Remember, unlike St. Petersburg, Moscow developed naturally, and so had built up in concentric rings to help confound invaders. However, he remained quite jovial, and I didn’t feel at risk.

He pointed out a number of landmarks as we passed them, and greeted acquaintances he knew.
After an hour or so, he led my into a dirty looking bar near the great wall of the Kremlin, the city fortress. I can’t remember the name of the place, but it was pretty dingy. He told me that I could sleep upstairs in a room he had booked, but for now he just needed to check in with his commanding officers. So, I went upstairs to put my clothing in a bundle next to the bed.

As I walked down the hallway on my way back downstairs I noticed two swarthy looking fellows standing at the end of the corridor near the window.

The near one called out to me in a Spanish accent, “excuse me Meester!”

The moustachioed Spaniard then held out a map, and made a gesture as if he needed help with directions! Of course, I didn’t know the city, but I thought it might at least help me to look at a map for a while.

So I leaned over, and together the two of us studied the first man’s map, while the second one stood on. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head, and then the world went black!

When I woke up I was lying on a bench. It was hard, and the sun was very bright, but other than that I was too bleary eyed to take much else in. Eventually, I came to realise I was no longer in Russia. Or, I had been out for the entire winter, and it was now summer time. It was quite warm out, and the air smelled of grapes, and other less pleasant scents.

I won’t go into gruesome detail, but suffice it to say I had smelled more pleasant outhouses, by some magnitude.

I sat up and looked around, only to find out I was wearing an army uniform! In fact, my long, shiny locks had been shorn from my head! In fact, my chest was well strapped, too. There was little remaining trace of my femininity to the outside observer!

All around me I could make out soldiers moving. I couldn’t tell whether they were men, or androgenised women like myself. All around me flies buzzed. The soldiers had shovels, and were moving about tremendous piles of offal! Some of which was actual excrement. Needless to say, I wasn’t pleased!

I approached the nearest soldier, and asked him or her what I was doing there. I demanded to be returned to my home! But the soldier would not speak to me. All he or she would do was point to a rack of shovels in the middle of the plain. I had been pressed into service to shovel poop!

Eventually, I found out I was being held prisoner on an Island off the coast of Spain, and I would make a daring escape and return to Poland just in time to be attacked by Nazis, but that’s another story.

It’s actually quite a harrowing tale, the story of what I did while I was there, and how I escaped. But, as I said, for another day.