Why I Killed That Panda

         Whoa, whoa. Let’s just slow down a second here. Just stand up and listen for a second. Please stop screaming. Please. Please stop. Thank you. Now, I know, I know we have a big mess to clean up. But before you. . .What? No I didn’t mean “we” as in you and I. I meant it in the collective sense. Now please listen. Don’t look down, look up here, we’ll worry about ‘down there’ in a minute, and stop screaming, stop, everything is going to be fine. Right now I want you to look at me, and listen, so I can tell you why I killed that panda.

         Honey, I know things look bad, and certainly you have every right to be shocked and a little angry, but if you don’t pull yourself together. . .What? Yes, I am fully aware that the panda had a name. . . No. Because it doesn’t matter if I tell you what the panda’s name was, that won’t help our situation and. . .Honey, Honey, I know. I know. I told you I knew Prince Bobo’s name. I told you I did. Please stop shouting. It’s what Prince Bobo would have wanted. Thank you.

         This is a testing situation, no one would disagree with that. Also, I don’t think anyone would say that I am completely blameless in bringing us into it. But just as the Scottish philosopher David Hume said, “If one particular event is said to cause another, are the two events logically connected, if all inferences from experience are effects of custom, not reasoning?”, I think that in a way, this, Prince Bobo’s final tableau, is not my fault, per se, so much as an event giving rise to the customary illusion of fault. After all, isn’t this horrible fate simultaneously everyone and no one’s fault? For example, although it was my idea to come to China for our second year anniversary, it was your idea to come to the zoo today, not mine. Does that mean that. . . Okay, okay, I know that you didn’t “force” me to drink ten beers at the monkey house concession stand, but you know how hard I work during the week! Don’t I deserve the occasional restorative?. . . I take your silent, open-mouthed glare as a sign of disbelief, but I assure you, a twenty-six hour week is more than enough to drive man to drink. So please don’t hold my own terrible cross to bare against me. As it appears our time for discussion is waning let me sum up my reason for killing that panda. . . sorry, why I killed Prince Bobo.

         To be completely frank, this hot air balloon wasn’t going to make itself any lighter. Admittedly, it was I that forced the three of us, you, myself, and Prince Bobo, into what I thought was just a large prop for a wicker basket exhibit, but sometimes the past and the illusions of gross negligence to which it will inevitably give rise must be put aside in order to focus on the present, i.e. forgetting how we got in this hot air balloon in order to focus on not letting said balloon collide with that very large mountain range. Yes, Honey, that mountain range right there. But of course, we’d still be on the ground if not for the unforeseeable consequences of my previous actions at the Insectatarium.

         Nobody, and I mean nobody, could have predicted that those vacationing taikonauts would have reacted so violently when I stood up during the “instructional video of welcome” and called them “orange wearin’, tube eatin’, slant eyed, moon fuckers.” Who would’ve even thought they speak English? Certainly not I. Of course some response was to be expected, but, again, how was I supposed to know that all Chinese astronauts are also expert martial artists? Why would they need that in space, honestly? And no one could have suspected that they would hunt us down later and untie the balloon’s only earth bound tether. Perhaps the Chinese space program should focus less on perfunctory kick-boxing skills and more on recruiting level headed adults that don’t get so mad at a simple stranger’s drunken epithets.

         In summary, I fully admit to making a poor decision when I bribed the comely assistant animal handler to let me take a panda out for half-an-hour. It was neither thrifty nor respectful of Prince Bobo or our beautiful, meaningful sense of marital trust and obligation. By, what some people would call, “kidnaping” Prince Bobo, I put not only myself, our visa status, and the future of the Asian panda population in danger, but also, most importantly, you. And for that I apologize.

         But, now I am sure that you see why, when the weight of the balloon brought that ever closer mountain peak into our path, I had to do what had to be done. When you were over there, screaming down to the emergency vehicles tailing us below, I chose the heftiest half-brick from that pile of half-bricks in the corner of the basket and in one deft and athletic motion helped Prince Bobo shuffle off this mortal coil. Now, we must find some way to lift this gentle giant over the side of the basket. . . Now, Honey, don’t say that. This isn’t Prince Bobo, just his physical husk. Prince Bobo will always be with us, in our hearts. And please, darling, remember as I stand here, bloody half-brick in hand, that I am a man that killed this panda for one reason and one reason only. . because I love you.