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Crocodile Hunter

I spent a fun weekend with Steve Irwin, the Australian Crocodile Hunter.

Recently, he was criticized for “introducing” his newborn to a man-eating croc.

Steve and Terry (his beautiful wife) have repeatedly risked their lives (along with their kids) to provide TV viewers ringside seats to rapacious reptiles and cunning carnivores.

When Steve and Terry arrived at our home in Los Angeles last week, she had the flu so Steve slipped her a sleeping potion that some head hunters in New Guinea had given him.

Steve confided that his purpose in visiting Los Angeles was to observe the nocturnal americana femme fatale (NAFF) in her native habitat.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“’Fer sure. They’re the deadliest of predators. Remember what that NAFF did to Hugh Grant?”

At sundown, armed with only a fistful of hundred dollar bills (bait) and a map to the stars’ watering holes, Steve and I sped through Beverly Hills in a Hummer equipped with its own bar and Jacuzzi.

Parking in the shadows and using a night scope, Steve checked Rodeo Drive. “It’s early for NAFFs to feed, but I suspect they’ll be showing up soon, Mate,” said Steve. “Jeepers-creepers, there’s one of the critters now!”

He passed me the night scope and sure enough a superb NAFF loomed before me. She squinted at us through the darkness.

“Crackie! Don’t even breathe, Mate,” cautioned Steve. “She has our scent.”

“We better leave,” I said as she was joined by an even more slinky NAFF — this one had twin silicone mammie-yammies and a see-through silk blouse.

“Leave? What would my viewers say?” asked the legendary zoologist. “Besides, that pair would nail us before we could move. Our only chance — play dead.” He fell to the ground, remaining motionless, clutching the hundred dollar bills.

“It’s that famous Auzzie,” yelped one of the creatures. “Let’s show him how we handle celebs in America.” (Only a slight smile on Steve’s lips belayed his death).

The NAFFs disrobed with blinding speed and fell upon the Croc Hunter.

“Back, you harlots!” screamed a voice out of the darkness.

A bullwhip caught one of the NAFFs on her tattooed butt. She squealed and raced off with her companion.

Clutching the bullwhip, Steve’s wife stepped out from behind a Jaguar. “You all right, Darlin’?” asked Terry.

“Lucky you came along when you did, those NAFFs were about to devour me.”

“Do me a favor, wait to introduce our kids to these sheilas for a few more years. They’re more dangerous than wild crocs.”

“Yes, dear,” said Steve. “I’m glad to see you’re over the flu.”

By the way, Steve is not the only one who knows about adventure. I took on the mighty, bloody, Amazon not long ago.

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