Where were you when you heard about Steve Irwin’s death? I think I was watching “Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course” on DVD – one of the greatest film works of our time – when my teary-eyed roommate busted into the room.

“Awww, lookey heah! The . the croc . he’s dead! The crocodile hunter is dead!”

After he muttered those terrible words to me, time froze as my mind raced with thoughts of impending doom.

Who would hunt our world’s crocodiles? Would they now be allowed to roam free, giving them time to fortify their defenses and brandish military-grade assault rifles, raping and pillaging cities across the globe? I shuddered at the thought.

Luckily, it turns out crocodiles don’t have opposable thumbs, so they couldn’t fire off our sophisticated weaponry even if they wanted to. Silly crocodiles.

But seriously, a stingray killed him? Those things snorkeling vacationers molest in the Bahamas? A more fitting death would have been being punched to death by a boxing-glove-fitted kangaroo or to have a pack of rabid koala bears tear the flesh from his bone.

Or how about having a razor-sharp boomerang lop off his head? All I’m saying is, this guy deserved a theatrical death, which he didn’t receive, and that in itself is the greater injustice.

There is a bigger reason I’m writing this column, however. I’m here to break the biggest conspiracy down under since the Australian mafia created reverse toilet water technology.

Crocodile Dundee is the killer. After years of being upstaged as the wiliest Aussie in all the land, Dundee was quietly cultivating groups of hormone-injected killer stingrays in his secret underground lair located seven miles below the Great Barrier Reef.

When Irwin was picked up in his sights, Dundee launched the stingrays out of his high-velocity stingray cannons. I’m then willing to believe that Dundee proceeded to laugh maniacally and stroke his beloved feline, Mr. Spaghettios, in a Dr. Claw-esque moment. But I’m not much for conspiracy theory.

In the end, it tears me up inside to know that somewhere in Australia, a single tear is rolling down an Aborigine’s cheek as he performs at a candlelight didgeridoo vigil. All across the outback, “Never forget” commemorative car magnets can be found on the Aussies’ dune buggies. In America, this is our generation’s Kennedy assassination, and it will define us as a people from here on.

It will take some time before we fully comprehend the gravity of this event, but soon we’ll have the Crocodile Hunter International Airport and a skyscraper-sized bronze statue of Irwin, his khaki Daisy Dukes glistening in the sunlight.

And if you just so happen to see Crocodile Dundee driving his Subaru Outback to go drink a Fosters in an Outback Steakhouse somewhere, well . just leave him alone. That dude has a big knife.

– Robert Lombardi is a junior in pre-advertising from Dubuque. He is the Daily FYI editor.

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