The Giraffe Conspiracy

Infidels, once again I have left you alone and bereft of stimulating intellectual commentary. I trust that your tears have been plentiful and bitter.

Unfortunately for all of us, I have ensnared a lady using my perplexing mixture of cynicism and comic facial hair. This has led to long discussions about how pixies paint rainbows and the best name for a kitten (Adolf). I know she is someone special because she scored the word 'Salmonella' into the top of my take-away food box. Because I am now all smiles and happiness and light and vomit, it has been difficult to write something worthy of the low standard you deserve. I will try anyway. Everything must start with 'we', because we are now a 'package', or 'embarrassment' as I prefer to think of it.

We went to the zoo to see Miss Doctor Ann, visiting from the Kingdom on business matters. She was at the zoo because we had arranged to meet her there and not because Homeland Security has taken a firmer line on Foreigns in its efforts to appease the citizens of Arizona. There was lots of screeching and whooping and all the foul smells one has come to expect from any attraction that features large numbers of visiting children. Much consternation followed the inexplicable disappearance of the giraffes, who, several sources confirmed, had once existed at the zoo but of which no trace remained in the form of enclosure or signs. Perhaps the new barbecue stalls held a clue...

We went to visit sometimes friend's old college town, the site of a famous battle during the war of 'Northern aggression' as it is known in the south or 'the war of not keeping people as property anymore' as it is known in the north. Like many towns of historical interest, it was overrun with tourists, ice cream and old grimacing beards running `antique' shops. Many, no doubt exacting, replicas of swords, badges, flags and reveling-in-others'-glories-paraphernalia were available in addition to genyoowhine bullets and in at least one storefront a selection of magnifying glasses of unparalleled garishness for the discerningly repulsive philatelist. After upsetting a waiter by only ordering drinks in a restaurant (why would anyone want to have a drink and a sit down on a hot day?) we decided to head home. Driving across the main street, I spied something astonishing. I was not the only one: passersby held their hands to their faces in shock, while children stood slack jawed and immobile. Animals fell instantly stricken on their backs, legs stiffly pointing at the sky. For striding powerfully along the sidewalk, buttocks rolling tightly from side to side, was a work of art if not a god. Chin held high, chest thrust out, elbows swinging alternately up and down and with a beaming smile, his attitude alone would have drawn attention, but this was not all he had to offer. Wearing the tiniest of cutoff denim shorts, the merest scrap of cloth, he revealed the full extent of his legs: twin perfections chiseled from finest ebony, gleaming black and not meant for the gaze of mere mortals. On his passing, parents scrabbled to cover their children's eyes, lest their minds be burnt to ash and the sun's light was forever rendered more dim. As we drove away I saw him chicken-strutting up to a group sitting outside an ice cream parlour. Their faces transformed in terror and veneration, he fixed them with his munificent grin and gracing them with two thumbs-up, he spoke. Though I could not hear from inside the car, his message was clear: 'Look upon me and rejoice, for my legs are awesome.'