A bloodied white rhino horn lies on my desk. My fellow employees from The Plantain crowd around me, a solemn hush blushing their cheeks. I snip off a smidgen of horn with my trusty pocket knife and place it onto the rich mahogany of my workstation, crushing it under the side of my gleaming AmazonBasics blade into a fine, creamy-white powder.
“Go on Ángel,” Christina Fontina, The Plantain’s secretary, whispers awe-struck in my ear. “This is a groundbreaking moment for online print media. You’re about to change everything.”
I take a deep breath, pausing to scratch my goatee and twiddle my mahogany framed hipster glasses, and place a rolled-up, torn out bible page into my left nostril.
I pause. I exhale. I pause again.
The old testament, trembling between thumb, forefinger, and nose, lowers to the neat line of white rhino powder. I take a deep, shaky sniff.
>You might think, expect even, that a pandemonium of sexual energy was unleashed
This was the scene at the offices of The Plantain last Thursday. You might think, expect even, that shortly after the white rhino powder entered my bloodstream through the sleek, white membranes of my nasal cavity, a pandemonium of sexual energy was unleashed. Perhaps you envision a mighty gash torn in my pants where my long dormant member suddenly sprung to life, endangering all in its path. Maybe you even imagine, a slight smile curling across your lips, that I finally succumbed to Christina’s endless flirtations, taking her abruptly over my magnificent mahogany desk to the sound of a rhythmic squeaking of flesh on fine polished wood while our coworkers cheered on in ecstasy. I wish that was the article I was writing.
But it isn’t. The white rhino powder did nothing for my sad little sausage. At first I was patient. But as the hours passed and the crowd around my desk dispersed, I started frantically crushing up the rest of the six-pound horn, desperately chasing a sexual dragon that never materialized.
Finally, I turned to Milo, The Plantain’s CEO, whose idea this whole sorry debacle had been in the first place.
“I thought you said this shit works!” I bawled, my composure decomposing. “I thought you said you had tried this shit ‘like, all the time’ and it was guaranteed to ‘totally fuck my dick up’?”
“Errr…” he said sheepishly. “I don’t know man, maybe your shit wasn’t pure? Did you inhale? You totally have to inhale. I mentioned the inhaling, right?”
I turned away from him in disgust. Another bust in my attempts to waken my slumbering genitalia, sure, but more than that, a savage failure to realize my dream of conquering new journalistic grounds, grounds that could have put me on the map, up there with some of the greats over at Vice News.
Just as well this was the horn of the last male white rhino in existence. At least I can take solace in the fact I paid the heavy price – both figuratively and literally – of having a poacher kill the last male white rhino on earth and deliver its horn to me, so that I could be the one to report that its legendary status as an aphrodisiac is nothing but powdered white lies.
Good riddance, I say.
By Ángel Saxon