taken place before the rhino arrived in Orlando. For added insurance, Disney botanists reclaimed the death stick and analyzed it. They reported that the tree it came from wasn’t native to Florida.
Still, Team Rodent remained worried. No upbeat spin could be put on a story about anendangered creature expiring under mysterious circumstances on company property. With memories of the abused-buzzard fiasco still tender, a wall of secrecy went up. Anyone with knowledge of the rhino’s demise was instructed to keep quiet, and to this day the attending veterinarians remain silent on the matter. Rumors about the rhino death have spread among employees throughout Disney’s kingdoms; in one version the lethal instrument is said to be a two-by-four bristling with nails. A small story eventually did appear in the
Orlando Sentinel
and other newspapers, though with no mention of the possibility of foul play.
Upon learning how the rhinoceros had died, I assumed the worst: that the poor beast had been violated by a disgruntled or depraved Disney “cast member.” It wasn’t impossible. They had peepers and flashers, didn’t they? Inside those stuffy costumes were real human beings with real human problems. What if Pooh had blown a gasket? What if Grumpy the Dwarf had no longer been able to suppress his darkest urges? Or maybe even one of the Mickeys? It was like something off the specialty video rack at Peep Land, this criminal debauchery of a rhinoceros; a rap verse off
The Great Milenko
. Sleaze lives!
Try to understand. For older, hard-core generations of Florida natives, no scandal is so delectable as a Disney scandal. This warped delight blooms out of deep resentment over the destruction of childhood haunts—an ongoing atrocity in which the Walt Disney Company remains gravely culpable, directly and indirectly.
Example: Peter Rummell, one the hotshots behind Celebration and the ill-fated Civil War theme park in Virginia, was hired away from Team Rodent in 1997 by the St. Joe Corp. Rummell’s stated mission is to turn St. Joe, once primarily a paper manufacturer, into a leading developer of commercial and residential real estate. St. Joe happens to be the biggest private landowner in Florida, holding 1.1 million acres, much of it unspoiled. The potential for an environmental holocaust is enormous, and there’s no comfort to be taken in the knowledge that a Disney spawn sits in command.
For those of us who grew up here, the anti-Mickey burn is chronic and ulcerating. It manifests in behavior that’s not always mature, well reasoned, or even comprehensible to outsiders. As ghastly as the rhinoceros story is, I admit it perked me up a little at first. In my imagination I saw thetop-secret necropsy report landing with a slap on Michael Eisner’s desk; pictured his expression cloud as he scanned the shocking medical description; watched the perspiration bead as he contemplated the dreadful ramifications of an endangered-mammal sodomization at a Disney attraction.…
But no. Whatever happened to the poor beast wasn’t Team Rodent’s doing. And yes, I was disappointed at the news; crestfallen, if you want the unflattering truth. A rhino scandal would have been a dandy.
But why wish for such a perverse twist of events? After all, aren’t the folks at Disney mostly good and decent and hardworking? And don’t they honor, in spades, their pledge to bring fun and happiness to kids of all ages? Sure they do. Being dutiful parents, my wife and I made several pilgrimages to Walt Disney World when our son was small, and he always seemed to have a blast. How could such a mirth-giving enterprise and the people behind it possibly be regarded as evil? Even Insane Clown Michael—I know he’s not really a puppy-killing, rhino-molesting, foul-mouthed ghostwriter of third-rate misogynist rap songs. I know he’s probably not even the Antichrist. He’s just an exceptionally ambitious guytrying to do a job, a guy who somehow has come to
Still, Team Rodent remained worried. No upbeat spin could be put on a story about anendangered creature expiring under mysterious circumstances on company property. With memories of the abused-buzzard fiasco still tender, a wall of secrecy went up. Anyone with knowledge of the rhino’s demise was instructed to keep quiet, and to this day the attending veterinarians remain silent on the matter. Rumors about the rhino death have spread among employees throughout Disney’s kingdoms; in one version the lethal instrument is said to be a two-by-four bristling with nails. A small story eventually did appear in the
Orlando Sentinel
and other newspapers, though with no mention of the possibility of foul play.
Upon learning how the rhinoceros had died, I assumed the worst: that the poor beast had been violated by a disgruntled or depraved Disney “cast member.” It wasn’t impossible. They had peepers and flashers, didn’t they? Inside those stuffy costumes were real human beings with real human problems. What if Pooh had blown a gasket? What if Grumpy the Dwarf had no longer been able to suppress his darkest urges? Or maybe even one of the Mickeys? It was like something off the specialty video rack at Peep Land, this criminal debauchery of a rhinoceros; a rap verse off
The Great Milenko
. Sleaze lives!
Try to understand. For older, hard-core generations of Florida natives, no scandal is so delectable as a Disney scandal. This warped delight blooms out of deep resentment over the destruction of childhood haunts—an ongoing atrocity in which the Walt Disney Company remains gravely culpable, directly and indirectly.
Example: Peter Rummell, one the hotshots behind Celebration and the ill-fated Civil War theme park in Virginia, was hired away from Team Rodent in 1997 by the St. Joe Corp. Rummell’s stated mission is to turn St. Joe, once primarily a paper manufacturer, into a leading developer of commercial and residential real estate. St. Joe happens to be the biggest private landowner in Florida, holding 1.1 million acres, much of it unspoiled. The potential for an environmental holocaust is enormous, and there’s no comfort to be taken in the knowledge that a Disney spawn sits in command.
For those of us who grew up here, the anti-Mickey burn is chronic and ulcerating. It manifests in behavior that’s not always mature, well reasoned, or even comprehensible to outsiders. As ghastly as the rhinoceros story is, I admit it perked me up a little at first. In my imagination I saw thetop-secret necropsy report landing with a slap on Michael Eisner’s desk; pictured his expression cloud as he scanned the shocking medical description; watched the perspiration bead as he contemplated the dreadful ramifications of an endangered-mammal sodomization at a Disney attraction.…
But no. Whatever happened to the poor beast wasn’t Team Rodent’s doing. And yes, I was disappointed at the news; crestfallen, if you want the unflattering truth. A rhino scandal would have been a dandy.
But why wish for such a perverse twist of events? After all, aren’t the folks at Disney mostly good and decent and hardworking? And don’t they honor, in spades, their pledge to bring fun and happiness to kids of all ages? Sure they do. Being dutiful parents, my wife and I made several pilgrimages to Walt Disney World when our son was small, and he always seemed to have a blast. How could such a mirth-giving enterprise and the people behind it possibly be regarded as evil? Even Insane Clown Michael—I know he’s not really a puppy-killing, rhino-molesting, foul-mouthed ghostwriter of third-rate misogynist rap songs. I know he’s probably not even the Antichrist. He’s just an exceptionally ambitious guytrying to do a job, a guy who somehow has come to
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