As a Self-Proclaimed Dinosaur, I’m Deeply Offended by Jurassic Park's Misrepresentation of My People

By Elliot J. Finch, Senior Irreverence Writer

Let me begin by saying I’m not here to roar (pun intended) for attention. As a self-proclaimed dinosaur—a proud descendent of the great Tyrannosaurus rex—I feel it’s my civic duty to speak up about the gross misrepresentation of my kind in Jurassic Park and its sequels.

What Steven Spielberg and his CGI cronies have done to our image is nothing short of character assassination.

First, let’s address the glaring inaccuracies.

Featherless dinosaurs? Really?

Science has proven, time and time again, that many of us were proudly rocking fabulous plumage.

Yet Hollywood insists on portraying us as scaly reptiles instead of the majestic prehistoric peacocks we truly were. T-Rex wasn’t a roaring monster—it was a fashion icon. Where are the feathers, Steven? Where is the dignity?

And don’t get me started on the Velociraptors.

The Jurassic Park franchise has convinced the world that these misunderstood cousins of mine were hyper-intelligent, man-hunting psychos.

For the record, Velociraptors were the pigeon-sized intellectuals of our time.

You wouldn’t be running from them; you’d be shooing them off your picnic blanket.

Hollywood turned them into cunning supervillains when, in reality, they probably struggled to open a coconut, let alone a kitchen door.

The portrayal of T-Rex is equally offensive. In Jurassic Park, my ancestors are reduced to nothing more than stomping, roaring spectacles with anger management issues.

Let’s clear something up: T-Rex had layers. We were complex creatures with a rich emotional spectrum. Spielberg, where’s the nuance?

Where’s the scene of T-Rex gently cradling a baby Pteranodon? Oh, right—it doesn’t exist, because Hollywood loves a villain.

And while I’m at it, let’s talk about that ridiculous premise. Humans cloning us back to life? Hardly. If dinosaurs had the technology, we’d clone humans back to the Stone Age.

Imagine an amusement park filled with prehistoric creatures marveling at Homo sapiens struggling to invent fire. That’s a blockbuster I’d pay to see.

What really grinds my gears—or fossils, as it were—is the lasting impact of these films. Children across the globe now see us as nothing more than terrifying beasts.

We’ve been reduced to Halloween costumes and theme park attractions. Our legacy as apex thinkers, feathered fashionistas, and prehistoric poets has been erased.

So, I demand reparations. Not monetary ones—after all, I wouldn’t know what to do with your human currency. I want the truth to be told.

Give us a Netflix docuseries. Call it Prehistoric Elegance: The True Story of Dinosaurs. Hire David Attenborough. Show the world the real us—feathers, flaws, and all.

Until then, I’ll continue my advocacy, one fossilized rant at a time.