You’re watching a scene from the highly acclaimed film Dance of the Walrus Hunters. A grizzled hunter and a questing novice stand in the frozen wastes of Antarctica, scoping out the walrus population.
“How are we going to kill it?” the novice asks. “A gun? A spear?”
“No,” the hunter intones. “To kill the walrus, you have to make love to it.”
A voice offstage announces, “This is your Oscar-winning moment!”
An über-schmaltzy soundtrack kicks in as the hunter steps forward to deliver a stirring monologue about the first time he killed something by, er, expressing his affection toward it: “She was 12 years old,” he begins, his voice quavering Oscar-clip style. “She was orange. She was my favorite cat.”
It just got weirder from there.
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