The official "good one, Steve Irwin" post for dong resin's joint

I've noticed a trend since Steve Irwin's death in the media to qualify any snark made about the silliness of it with a quick mention along the lines of "yeah, but remember when he had his infant son in one arm while feeding that crocodile?" Usually implies a parental ability and sense of responsibility somewhere between Patsy Ramsey and whomever that is indirectly responsible for the warning label on industrial bandsaws which read "no, not with the baby."

First of all, you don't need to qualify goofing on a guy stabbed through the chest by a stingray; even Aquaman never had that happen to him, and they've had to come up with new ocean-themed dangers for that guy every month for decades. Like one time Aquaman had to fight off a really pissy manatee who'd slap you soon as look at you. A slow, languorous slap maybe, but those big flippers could eventually leave a welt, and it was really upsetting a couple of older people at the beach until Aquaman showed up. This was right after his two-parter showdown with the angry soft ball of wool. Stingrays, however, would at their worst appear in Aquaman as little but blissful scenery between the purple beds of kelp and that young muscular ward in the speedo who seemed to have his mouth agape a lot. Getting killed by a stingray is roughly analogous to getting taken out by a moth: you know that out in the Amazon somewhere some guy wearing an all-cotton outfit in the wrong cave suddenly turned on one of those super powerful flashlights, a flashlight which they later found lying in a small pile of shirt buttons next to his watch with no band on it, but you're not all that apprehensive on the porch at night when you have to take the dog out for a pee.

Secondly, and more importantly, keeping a baby under one arm while dealing with a crocodile is the only thing I ever saw Steve Irwin do that I agreed with or understood. Listen, get me anywhere near a crocodile, or one of those large mean swans at the lake in the park, and I want a mess of babies on hand to cloud the issue of the thing eating my crotch. A mess of babies. I want a baby under each arm and a baby in one of those Swedish chest things... no not Anita Ekberg, the backpack things.. the "Bjorn." I want babies in those, one on my chest, could probably get two on my back. No not two, babies are squishy, roll `em right around me -- a bandoleer of tossin' babies. I want to be the Chewbacca of spare babies. And Miracle Whip. Almost forgot the Miracle Whip. I don't want to go through the humiliation of tossing kids at a crocodile only to have the thing ignore them and come after me. The crocodile tossin' babies get a light coat of Miracle Whip.

Anyway, I'll bet the stingray which killed Steve feels awful. I mean they're like covered in mucous or something.