Tiger Attacks: Is This Really a Problem?

merican media is in a frenzy the week following a brutal tiger attack on magician Roy Horn in Las Vegas. The Oct. 3 mauling of the entertainer happened at The Mirage hotel-casino show in front 1,500 lucky paying fans. Ever since the incident, news organizations and infotainment sources have been bringing a steady deluge of information on tigers and tiger attacks to the public, prompting the question: Is this really a problem?

Horn, 59, of the famed unambiguously-gay duo “Sigfried & Roy,� remains in critical condition following the near-fatal tiger attack. The tiger, a white 7-year-old Siberian tiger, the same kind it’s hard to get a photo of Horn without, was being quarantined and apparently held for questioning following the mauling. Witnesses said Horn was alone with the tiger onstage when it grabbed his arm; Horn then tried to fend off the animal with a microphone, but it offered no comment on its intentions. The tiger, whose name was not released to reporters, then went for Horn’s throat and dragged him off-stage. Those who saw the event described it as “terrifyingly amusing.�

No doubt it was gruesome to behold, and will be part of an hour-long Fox special in the future, but what about preventing further incidents of tiger-related injuries? One man has received possibly-fatal injuries already, and much other damage has been inflicted: 267 Sigfried & Roy workers lost their jobs and The Mirage lost a $44 million-earning act. What other damage have tigers inflicted on the American public?

According to a PETA pamphlet mistakenly mailed to the commune, over 15,000 tigers are privately owned in the United States, despite being illegal as pets. Since 1990, six adults and two children have been killed in tiger-related incidents, and over 60 have been seriously injured. Statistics on how many tigers or individuals are involved in the entertainment industry are not given, but it’s easy to assume most illegally-kept tigers are not kept secret by taking them onstage for a show regularly. In fact, truthfully, how you can keep a tiger amongst other people at all without anyone knowing about it is itself a mystery, given this reporter’s cat Knickers receives complaints from nasty neighbors on average of once a week.

Since the mauling at The Mirage, lawmakers have apparently done nothing further to discourage further tiger attacks. Though with media hype building, the exact number of licenses and permits necessary to bring a wild animal show to town will likely be revealed as tiger-related news proves a thin resource.

Reports continue to flood in about the outpouring of support for Roy Horn and his companion, meant in the working sense, Sigfried Fischbacher. People arrive in droves at a makeshift memorial in front of The Mirage and numbers of them hold candlelight vigils in front of the hospital where he continues his recovery process. So many people have visited the Sigfried & Roy website, it has reportedly crashed numerous times. Meanwhile, 11 million children in Africa are left orphans from AIDS epidemics and the UN projects 2 billion people worldwide will live in poverty by 2030.

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Ned's time on the moon been written about in many the book and popular song, including "Mr. Moonlight" and "Moonchild," but none of them done quite got it right. Nope indeed, all them popular tales go heavy on the heroics and light on them dachshunds. Ned's here once and for never to set them stories right.

True enough, Nedro did travel to them moon in the month of Smogust in 1944.3, climbing up that big green ladder been left there by them homesick astronauts. Ned gone up there for see who left them nightlight on, keepin' Ned up all night with so much glowin' and keepin' the nighttime so bright. Leave it to them governments to flip off the sun switch straight right, but forget and leaving them moonlight on all night like we was childrens a-scairt of the dark. So Ned done climbed right up to do hisself a public service.

But what was Ned to find moonward but Ugly McUgly, big fella lived up to his name all too well, tossin' and turnin' up there in his lumpy moon bed and feelin' sicker than a jellyfish in a peanut butter factory. Ned marched right up and said "Hullo, Ugly!" without knowin' that be his right Christian name. Lucky for Neddums it was to be. McUgly took a powerful liking to Nedmiller right from the start, on account of Ned knowin' his name and greetin' him so polite and so.

Ugly McUgly told Ned about buildin' them moon outta space dandruff as his own personals apartment, and a-flyin' it over the earth to keep an eye on Africa, which bores a sure-fire resemblance to his ol' first wife, who done left him for Asia minor. Back then, 'course, them moons was lush with pink forests and rivers of diet cola 'nuff to make a tooth ache all by itself on a dinner plate. Right nice place to live. But McUgly done got so obsessed with tryin' to piss on Poland from up on that there moon, whole place done gone straight to gray-tone hell. Dust bunnies takin' over and a-nibblin' on the furniture, cobweb clouds gummin' up them skies, and whole place gone dusty like the crack of a Texas baby's behind. McUgly himself catches them dust fever, and spend his days an' nights tossin' and a-turnin' in his big-ole lumpy moon bed.

Ned try all sorta remedy to make McUgly well agains, includin' wrappin' up a whole herd of them moon gazelles in a pita sandwich topped with sauce from the moon's only tartar. No dice, Jerry Rice. Nedful also done try straining them whole moons through a funnel and make a smoothie from moon juice, but that shake been too thick to draw even through special .50 caliber straws, no lie. Even Moon Asprin, dug from them Asprin Valley up there on the moon's dark side fulla fields of pills, even that genius cracker of an idea done no good for McUgly and his powerful ill funk.

Nedly gotta go for plan B, and so him done yank out the cord reachin' from the back of them moons all them ways acrosst over to the only power socket in them sky, and right quick them whole shebang goes darker than a politician's soul like lickety splat. Ugly McUgly not too keen on plan B and Ned hasta make haste down the moon ladder like he was late to get his teeth frosted. Hand over foot over head under ankle, Ned raced down that ladder like falling but with more grabbin' and scramblin'. Ugly McUgly been right on the heels of Ned, on account of him trippin' over the moon in the dark and fallin' off like a cripple in a wheelchair spillin' off a horse.

Ned beat McUgly to the ground by just a nibble of a second, but Ugly beat Ned to the underground by a lot. Not many a mans done dug his own grave, let alone with his own misfortunate face, but Ugly McUgly done broke offa hunk of that honor all for hisself.

And wouldn't you know what? Them government boohobs done got right back up and plugged that moons back in them very next night. So much for shuteye, says Ned. And them's the story of how come Ned sleeps in them diving suit at nighttimes, childrens.

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"I remember it just like it was yesterday, the summer that my brother Goose and I spent trying to build our own airplane. We had it on good authority that none other than the Great Gildersleeve himself would be making a public appearance in St Louis in a month's time, and we weren't about to consider the option of not being there. We begged mom and dad for weeks, but they failed to realize the importance of this event, or the relative insignificance of the 36-hour drive to St Louis. Perhaps if we'd had Stephanie on our side we could have turned the tides, but she was strictly a Fibber McGee girl and she distanced herself from the negotiations, most likely because she was angling for a new bike for her birthday. So it remained for Goose and I to find our own means of transportation to St Louis, and a homemade airplane sounded as good as any.

Our first prototype was a simple model consisting of an old mattress we found in the garage with a red racing stripe painted up the side. And it may have gotten the job done if it weren't for Goose, who was scared by a bee when we were hoisting it up onto the roof and let go of the mattress-plane early, which slid off the roof and into our neighbor's pool. Similar was the fate of prototype number two, an old garbage can tied to a pogo stick, which slid down the roof while Goose was climbing in and ended up putting a big dent in the hood of Dad's car. Goose caught pure hell for that mishap, and I had to join the 4H Club just to provide an alibi as to where I was that afternoon.

Goose thought we should go with one of his designs for our third prototype, and I humored him although I was doubtful because of Goose's well-documented lack of imagination. Prototype three ended up being a big cardboard box with a picture of an airplane taped to the side, and all I have to say about that is I'm glad Goose broke my fall. He's probably lucky he sprained his ankle as well since Mom was pretty steamed at Goose for cutting up the "A" volume of the family encyclopedias the way he did.

After that mom and dad both forbade us from attempting any more flights to St Louis, and we ended up having to listen to the Great Gildersleeve on the radio instead while Goose was propped up on icepacks. It probably would have been more fun to be there in person, but I imagine then we would have missed the fun that night when we heard that great crash outside and all ran out to find dad in the driveway amidst a mangled pile of homemade airplane parts."

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