I know I know I know: Mamet parodies are done to death, especially when it comes to this gem. Still, given Alec Baldwin's recent gig narrating the National Geographic Channel's "Great Migrations" series, I just couldn't help myself. This piece was co-written by my husband the ecologist.Let me have your attention for a moment! So you’re, what, grazing right now? Lying around in the sun getting fat? Fantastic. How lovely for you. Let’s talk about something important.
Is everybody in here? Pronghorn Antelope, Monarch Butterfly, Sandhill Crane? You, antelope: stop that nuzzling. Breeding is for movers. What, you gonna gore me now, pal? I’m not afraid of you. We both know you’re nowhere near ready to rut.
You call yourselves migratory species, you cut-rate sacks of genetic material? Well I think you should listen to me. I’ve been sent here on a mission of mercy to get you North American migrants off your pathetic leaf-nibbling asses yesterday. It’s time to get a fucking move on, ladies. The frost is coming, and when it gets here, well, I don’t have to tell you, that’s your ass. Dead, gone, fucking detritus.
That’s the bad news. The good news is we’ve identified some incentives for this year’s migration. First prize is you get to propagate your species in an orgiastic mating frenzy of Roman proportions. Second prize is you survive a few more months. Third prize is you’re dead. You hear me? Do you?
E-T-N-A. Energy, Timing, Navigation, Action. Energy – have you banked enough calories to attempt the journey? If not, you might as well drop dead right now. Timing – are you starting your migration on time? Too early and the elements have their way with you. Too late and you’ll show up after everyone else and die horny and starving. Navigation – which direction do you move this time of year? If you’re off by so much as half a fucking click you can kiss your disoriented ass goodbye. Action – put your hooves on the ground, your wings in the air, and start moving. E-T-N-A; get out there! Winter is coming. Get your fat faces out of the grass and haul your sorry back ends in the direction which is southerly.
Look, I’ve had it up to my balls with the excuses, Crane. “The tail winds are weak.” The tail winds are weak? You’re weak! The ruby-throated hummingbird flies clear across the Gulf of goddamn Mexico! His iridescent ass is smaller than my middle finger! Do you see my middle finger? Pay attention, Monarch! The Arctic tern logs a solid twenty-two thousand miles on the wing while you fancy orange fairies dangle around some fir tree all winter. And you. Antelope. You pantywaist antelope. Wildebeests march their dim-witted herds across Africa watching their children get picked off by crocodiles and you don’t hear them complaining. So I suggest you buck up.
It’s out there; it’s all out there. Food. Sex. Greener pastures. All you gotta do is move. Resources are for movers. And you – I have no sympathy for you. You can migrate now or go fucking extinct for all it matters to nature. Nature is not here to lick your wounds. I’d wish you good luck, but hormones and instinct are all you’ve ever listened to in the first place.