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The Dream Of Harambe Is A Dream That Lives In All Of Us

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I had a dream last night. And not for the first time. It’s a dream I have had over and over since May 28, the day Harambe was shot and killed by zookeepers after a three-year-old boy fell into his enclosure.

Here’s how the dream went.

I was a young child at the zoo being pushed in a stroller towards the gorilla exhibit by my two lesbian mothers, 1996 Jennifer Love-Hewitt and 1990 Pamela Anderson.

As we approached the exhibit, J Love walked tragically close to an automatic sprinkler system. Her tight, white t-shirt was ruined.

“Oh no, Pam!” she cried. “I got water all over my tits.”

As Pam Andy tried desperately to dry her spouse’s soaked mammilla with nothing but her hands and face, I climbed out of the stroller and toddler-wobbled towards the ledge of the exhibit. Then I saw it.

A massive, hairy figure with a barrel chest, a thick, furrowed brow, and tree trunks for forearms.

I told Rosie O’Donnell to get out of the way so I could see the gorilla. When she waddled away, I laid my eyes upon the majesty of Harambe for the first time (although the dream is recurring, every time I see him feels like the first time).

His strong, mighty body. His soft, caring eyes. He sat with his elbow resting on a boulder, his chin pointing towards the heavens as his powerful jaws chomped away at a shoot of bamboo. Never before had I bore witness to such a noble sight. I had to get a closer look.

But as I hoisted myself up onto the railing, I lost my balance and went tumbling over, falling head over heels before landing square on my back in a dirty creek at the edge of the enclosure. As I stared up at the gray sky, screaming and crying in pain, I felt myself being lifted upwards. Two powerful arms cradled me. Firm yet gentle. Then he looked down at me. I was face to face with the kind beast. So close I could feel his hot breath. Harambe wiped the tears from my face and whispered, “Everything will be okay.” My pain was gone.

Harambe took me by the ankle and began tenderly dragging me through the muddy water. As my small body flailed behind him, Miley and Billy Ray Cyrus’ heartfelt father-daughter duet “Butterfly Fly Away” echoed in the background. A montage of a life raised by Harambe flashed before my eyes.

(For full effect, let this song play while you read the next five paragraphs).

In one moment, it was my first day of school. Oh boy was I nervous. But Harambe walked me to the bus, gave me a big hug, and handed me a bag lunch of caterpillars and stems. Later, I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Harambe all about the new friends I had made.

In the next moment, I was up to bat in little league. Bases loaded. Down by 1. 2 outs. 2 strikes. I couldn’t do it. But then I looked out over left field and saw Harambe leaning against the fence. He nodded approvingly. I could do it.

Cut to the big school play. I was about to go on. I was so worried I would forget my lines. And Harambe didn’t meet me before the show to tell me to “break a leg” like he said he would. I took a deep breath and walked onstage. As I entered the limelight, I looked in the back of the audience and saw him standing there with his arms crossed and a huge grin on his face. You did come, Harambe. You did come.

In the next instant, I was a young man caught in the midst of puberty. Harambe had grounded me multiple times for catching me with his copy of National Geographic. I wanted to ask the prettiest girl in school, Becky, to the fall dance. Luckily, Harambe was there to give me advice on talking to girls. The next day, I went up to Becky and made my move. I beat my chest, howled, and sniffed Becky’s armpits and genitals. She said yes! Thanks, Harambe.

Then I was an 18-year-old on the cusp of adulthood, walking across a stage in my cap and gown. Harambe was in the front row of the crowd, grunting and clapping with the entirety of his arms. A single tear slid down his wrinkled face.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot rang out, the Miley/Billy Ray Cyrus music halted and the dream snapped back to the gorilla exhibit. Harambe stood in front of me, clutching his chest. Then he fell backwards into the creek with a splash.

I jolted awake in my bed.

The dream always plays out like that. And each time it happens, I am reminded of the lessons Harambe taught all of us.

To live. To laugh. To sniff as many bitches’ genitals as you can while you still have the chance.

But most importantly, Harambe taught us that if someone falls down, always be there to pick them up. And drag them several yards by the ankle.

It is important that we keep the memory of Him alive. Whip your dicks out. Dump your tits out. Do whatever you must to carry on his legacy. For the dream of Harambe is a dream that dwells in all of us.

RIP Harambe. Gone, but never forgotten.

Thoughts and prayers:


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Alex Buscemi

AKA Boosh. Former high school back-up wide receiver. Author of two pretty successful Reddit comments. Recent grad from the University of South Carolina.

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