Hey, giraffe. Whatcha doing?
“Standing in a field. Looking.”
Cool.
“Gonna eat leaves in a bit.”
Nice. That your kid?
“No, I’m babysitting.”
Giraffes babysit?
“Of course not, schmuck. Obviously, it’s my kid. He’s just like his father.”
That’s good.
“It’s not. His father is an arsonist.”
That’s bad.
“I have no idea where he’s getting the matches from. Or how he’s lighting them.”
It’s all confusing.
“You try to raise them right, but they do what they want.”
Maybe his father could talk a little sense into the firebug.
“We didn’t have much of a relationship. All I know about his father is that he beat the crap out of the other males, jumped on top of me and spasmed, then ran off awkwardly.”
And the fires.
“Yeah, and the fires. I just heard about that, though. Never seen it.”
Oh.
“Luckily, hearsay is admissible in giraffe court.”
That sounds made up.
“Which part?”
The whole sentence.
“Eh. It’s kinda boring out here, y’know? Gotta amuse yourself.”
How about a hobby?
“Tell you the truth, there’s not enough time. How long each day do you eat?”
Like, the physical act?
“Procuring, preparing, and consuming your life-giving calories, yeah.”
Hour a day? On average, I guess, if you amortize the shopping trip over the whole week. Probably less than an hour, but let’s call it an hour.
“Yeah. We eat more than that.”
Why?
“It turns out that leaves are the shittiest food on the planet. Virtually devoid of nutritional value. Gotta eat hundred of pounds of ’em a day, and then digest ’em two or three times.”
You should eat something else.
“We ordered a pizza once.”
What happened?
“Lion intercepted the delivery.”
Ate the pizza?
“Ate the delivery guy.”
Oh.
“Now, Domino’s won’t come back to the neighborhood.”
That’s probably a blessing in disguise.
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