George Of The Rain Forest

Somewhere along the line the jungle was taken from me. The mysterious, dangerous territory of my youthful imagination, filled snakes, tigers and an infinite number of other dangerous creatures was high jacked, replaced by a tedious, castrated place called the rain forest.

Yawn.

In these boring, politically correct times it’s not polite to call a rain forest a jungle. No, no no. A jungle is a dark forbidding place. A rain forest, on the other hand, is a place of gentle greenery and cute, precocious endangered animals, a perfect for your next vegan picnic. When they talk about those bad people trying to carve out a little farmland in the Amazon, they are destroying the rain forest! It doesn’t sound right if they’re destroying the jungle because the term jungle sounds like it deserves to be cut down!

So Tarzan’s parents didn’t crash in a treacherous foreboding jungle filled with dangers at every turn. He was Tarzan King Of The Rain Forest. Don’t you like the way that rolls of the tongue? Either way he was raised by apes. And what about my good friend George? Can’t you hear the children singing, “George, George, George of the rain forest”? Speaking of songs, you all remember that classic Creedence Clearwater song. Sing it with me now, “Better run through the rain forest. . .”

I don’t care what anyone says, the crew of that PT boat in the movie “Apocalypse Now” wasn’t going up the Mekong River into the depths of the rain forest. That, my friends, was a jungle.

I wonder, do they still have the jungle cruise ride at Disneyland? If they’ve changed it to the rain forest cruise I might have to slit my wrists.

I find it interesting how our language is being subdued all for the sake of political correctness. Garbage men became sanitation engineers. Housewives are now homemakers. The next thing you know, car salesmen will be referred as transportation consultants! They’re making a pussy out of our beloved English language!

Never again can I sing a rousing chorus of the theme from “The Flintstones” at my local bar. The ending, “we’ll have a gay old time” might be misunderstood. Someone might beat the crap out of me and dump my body in a rain forest!

In the summer it’s not hot any more. No way. Its climate change. (Climate change has replaced the term global warming, because apparently the globe hasn’t gotten any hotter in the last ten years.) Instead of just getting some lemonade or a cold beer, and watching a ball game on the tube, we’ve got to feel guilty that it’s a hundred degrees outside. There are dead polar bears out there and it’s our fault. And moving them to the rain forest won’t help! (I fully realize that this paragraph doesn’t really fit the subject, but it’s my blog so get used to it.)

So I say we’ve got to take a stand on this stuff, and I’m here to put forth the proposition that we start with our beloved jungles. I don’t want to go on a Safari (oops, I’m sorry, a photo Safari) in a rain forest. I want a jungle. And throw in a little quicksand while you’re at it. After all I’m a big mean transportation consultant. I can handle it!


Talk to you later,


David