Liquidation of Under-Performing Assets
by Jill Conner Browne


I think ol’ Mother Nature has a way of knowing which assets need to be preserved, nurtured and encouraged to reproduce and flourish — and which ones, well, which ones need to go. It’s why She created igmos, so they will find their own ways to spare us any extensive time in the dubious pleasure of their company and save Her the trouble of keeping track of them and smacking them down when they become too irritating. She knows, sooner or later, they will buy motorcycles too fast for them — and they won’t wear helmets — or any number of other equally idiotic and suicidal things in the name of “sports,” and She need not lift a finger.

In keeping with that thought, I am thrilled to report the alligator population in Mississippi has grown to the extent that a “harvest” is now needed for reasons best understood by alligator managers and excited would-be hunters. To facilitate this harvest in a fair and equitable manner, the state instituted a lottery by which 50 coveted ‘gator hunting permits were to be awarded. (

Personally, I find the randomness of a lottery boring. What an excellent pageant opportunity this would have been … complete with mandatory talent, swimsuit and interview competitions. Only then would we truly know the very Best were selected. But as usual, nobody asked my opinion.)

But, boring or not, I, of course, entered immediately, hoping ONLY to win the opportunity to see in person the people who were clamoring to go out, in the dark of night, to literally grab an alligator.

Naturally, if selected, I would have put together THE cutest team of Gator Hunter Watchers EVER, and our outfits would have been adorable. We would have been so darlin’ WATCHING the other — actual — Gator Hunters heading out, being swallowed up by the inky darkness of the swampy launch area … from our safe perch on high, dry land. We would be spared the spectacle of any of them ACTUALLY being swallowed up by the objects of the hunt, should anything go, as they say, A-WRY.

Likewise from our high, dry, safe spot, we could and would, indeed, welcome back any and all who did return — whether they were in one piece or otherwise — and we would bellow rousing cheers for the “winner” of this ridiculous outing. I call it ridiculous because … well, just wait ‘til you hear the rules.

The rules of the hunt stated that the ‘gators must be AT LEAST 4 feet in length and must be captured alive and RESTRAINED “in a manner that the alligator is controlled.” The acceptable restraint methods listed seemed to me to put the hunter in extreme proximity to the beasty. I didn’t dwell on the sanctioned means for “dispatching” the animal (apparently, we don’t call it “killing” on account of “killing” animals, even big, giant alligators, is not PC) except to note with interest that all firearms must be cased and UNLOADED until all the restraining maneuvers are completed — meaning that, for a good spell, it’s just you and your reptile, duking it out, man to monster, so to speak … real intimate-like. In my mind, this adds up to only one thing … Advantage: alligator. Seems fair enough to me.

If I’d entertained any thoughts of actually joining the hunt — and I assure you, I had not — those thoughts were summarily dispatched by reading those rules.

Non-Southerners may be unaware that most of our waterways have mud bottoms, which means at least two things: 1.) the water is not unlike chocolate milk in color and consistency and 2.) major squish factor between your toes.

I don’t mind the chocolate milk part, but I will literally stretch out and float my 6’1” inch frame in a foot of water to avoid stepping on whatever it is that I can’t see in that squish. It goes without saying, therefore, that I am totally uninterested in GRABBING, sight unseen, anything of any size in there even in the broadest of daylight. The thought of venturing into those opaque waters in the middle of the night and attempting, on purpose, to take hold of a live alligator, at least 4 feet long, well, it gives me both the heebies and the jeebies and plenty of ‘em. Therefore, it is with no particular regret that I inform you of my failure to win this lottery.

I was forced to content myself, along with all the other lottery-losers, to read the thrilling hunt tales in the paper. With chagrin, I noted the snappy outfits of some of the teams — not anything bright and sparkly like I would have chosen, of course — just matching T-shirts but still, they were coordinated without being too matchy-matchy. Very tasteful — which is so important when one is going out in the middle of the night on what could very well be the Very Last Stupid Thing One Ever Does in One’s Whole Life. After all, one might not be coming back at all … one might be eaten alive by a ridiculously huge and terrifying reptile … one has had the utter stupidity to go out and molest in the middle of the night, on its home turf, this reptile; and so one would certainly hope, in such circumstances, to be attired tastefully.

I’m suspicious of them calling this deal a “state-sponsored alligator harvest,” however. It purports to be managing the burgeoning size of the ‘gator population — I think it’s just possible that it could be more of a thinly veiled attempt at weeding out the human gene pool.