The Giraffe That Had It Up To Here

“The Giraffe That Had It Up To Way Up Here”
By Mr. Van Feisty

         Ned hated his job.  Every one of those pathetic little humans was both his physical and intellectual dwarf.  And to think that little Giacomo, that 5’6” dung-face had been made Account Supervisor over Ned!

Ned was dangerously close to the boiling point.  His human coworkers had taken advantage of his species’ gentle nature for too long.  He was smarter, taller and more interesting to look at that anyone else at the office.  At meetings, clients clamored to shake his hoof.  And after they heard his pitches, they demanded he oversee their accounts.  So help him Darwin, if Giacomo suggested one more MLS sponsorship, Ned was going to wrap his hooves around a shotgun and blow his head even farther away from his body.

But Ned was not quite at that point.  Almost, but not quite.  If he could just enjoy his two favorite guilty pleasures—a grande mocha frappuccino and a trashy, Danielle Steele novel—in peace, he could relax enough to walk the four blocks back to his high-ceilinged apartment without galloping into traffic.

Ned was calculating the altitude he would reach if hit by a cab at 30 mph when a bubbly little couple entered the café with all the jaunt and spring of young people who know they are about to get laid.  Ned was in no mood for the jaunty.

Had they not been separately imagining the best way to bring up their shared-but-secret fetishes, the pair may have thought better of sitting next to a 20-foot tall giraffe in business casual attire, sipping a frappuccino and reading a Danielle Steel novel.  In fact, once they had sat, the young woman, Carissa, thought she saw Ned twitch.  Not drastically: just a quick spasm along the left side of Ned’s face.  And before Carissa could think longer of it, she felt her new boyfriend, Todd, slide an eager hand down her calf and over her open-toed shoe.  By the time Todd’s fingers were dancing along the tops of her exquisitely painted toes, Carissa had forgotten altogether that she was sitting next to a giraffe in a café.  The tiny alarm that had begun to signal inside her brain--the one that says, “it’s not a good idea to patronize cafes that seat and serve wild animals, especially the unstable types that twitch and read Danielle Steele novels,”—had gone silent.

It wasn’t so much that the alarm went silent.  It was more about a voice in her brain screaming over it.  That voice belonged to Carissa’s sex drive.  And every time Carissa was with a cute boy, that voice took a deep breath, cupped its hands around its mouth and yelled, “TOES!  Suck my f-ing toes, you thirsty little aardvark!”

Ned saw the young man work his stubby fingers under the table.  Ned saw the rude little tramp take in a sharp breath and arch her back.  This angered Ned.  Ned loved reading about licentious behavior, but that didn’t mean he wanted to watch dirty little horn-balls perform it.

Think about it… When you’re a 20-foot tall giraffe living among 6-foot humans, the view is almost always uncensored:  The teenager ogling a scantily-clad woman… The grandmother picking her wedgie… The bum relieving himself two blocks north... Every grotesque detail of human society presented in stunning High Definition!  Ned longed for mystery, for intrigue, for subtlety.  But these humans—at the office, at the café--were so damn obvious!  Not like the characters in a Danielle Steele novel; of which he desperately wanted to learn more about.

Ned drew a deep one through his leathery nostrils and tried to concentrate on his book.

Poor Todd, however, did not see things as easily as his neighbor, the giraffe.  Truth be told, Todd’s fingers were playing with the key to a treasure chest but Todd's brain was racing too wildly to notice.  Instead of keeping his eyes locked on Carissa, checking for the tell-tale signs of stimulation (i.e. licking of the lips, narrowing of the eyes…), Todd was distracted by the sight of a 20-foot giraffe dressed business-casual, sipping a frappuccino and reading a book!

Not just any book, noticed Todd, a thick fucker—one of those "read-till-your-eyes-bleed, now-I-have-a-headache" books.  Todd hated those books.  He’d tried to read The Count of Monte Cristo just after his little brother had completed it.  Around page 200, Todd felt light-headed.  About page 475 came the stomach cramps, and shortly thereafter, in the early 500’s, came the explosive diarrhea.  It was terrible.  His younger brother would stand outside the locked bathroom door, laughing and drawing crude stick-figure plot summaries and sliding them under the door as Todd sat shitting and weeping; using the poor Count for toilet paper.

Todd hated thick books and all who read them.
         
“How’s the book?” Todd asked.

Ned was livid.  Did this tiny approximation of a man really just address him as a peer?  As one of his own diminutive terds that got together on Sundays and ate tiny nachos and processed meat?  Did he not have any idea that the absolute last thing a creature of Ned’s stature wanted to do was give this boy a book review?  Ned set a course for the Isle of Ignore.

“Hey, giraffe—I asked you a question.”

Carissa was nervous, but also a little excited that Todd was one of those daring types that struck up conversations with strangers.  “Double points for starting up with a giraffe!” she thought.  She rubbed her foot against Todd’s.

Emboldened by Carissa’s amorous caresses, Todd decided to elevate from 'mildly rude' to 'downright snide.'

“Stupid giraffe,” muttered Todd.  Though he turned to Carissa, he kept his eyes on the giraffe and spoke loudly enough for Ned, and the three hipsters seated nearby to hear. “Probably can’t even read English,” jabbed Todd.  Carissa giggled.  (She’d never known Todd to be so witty!)  “Hey, giraffe, I’m done with my tea… wanna’ chew on the leaves?! Ah-ha-ha-HAHAHAH!!!!  The hipsters observed.

"That’s it," thought Ned.  "I’ve had it up to here!" He scanned the room—of which, he could say every inch—for receptacles that would hold a rude, 170 pound, 5-foot-nothing, ball of snot.

Todd stood up.  Carissa drew another of her signature breaths and felt something get a little misty in a place where that happens when girls get excited.

“Why don’t you put your fancy book down and—“ but before Todd could swing the back end of his taunt, Ned kicked a hind-quartered hoof into the boy’s knee and watched him fall down even closer to the dirty floor way down below.  Todd squealed.  He reached to push his knee back in front of his leg, where it belonged, but stopped short—He didn’t want to cut himself on the splintered, protruding, red-laced femur. 

Carissa, horrified at the quickness and severity of the formerly stoic giraffe’s strike, couldn’t help but feel a little bit lucky that the blow had not damaged Todd’s mouth and/or tongue.  At the very least, he would still be able to slide off her shoes and tease her painted digits with his moist, parted lips—oh, too late!

The second blow came with twice the ferocity of the first.  Ned rose to his full height and took advantage, not only of his lengthy sinews, but of gravity as well.  His hoof scraped the ceiling, then came down with all the passion of one of his beloved author’s climaxes.

Todd crumpled under the blow.  He lay flat on the unsanitary floor.  Ned felt the pressure of the day’s coffee in his loins.  In fact, Ned had felt an enormous amount of pressure for quite a while now.  He felt the pressure to put things right.  Too many human imbeciles had committed too many transgressions for far too long.  Prior to today, Ned would have been upset with himself for resorting to violence.  As a giraffe, he thought himself above that.  But today, Ned knew that the rising torrent of injustice had come to a head, and the maddening pressure must be released.

So, Ned positioned himself over the young man, lifted a leg and relieved himself.

Though Ned’s usual method of relaxation had been derailed, he did feel better now compared to when he first entered the café.  Earlier, he had been just another overworked, under-appreciated, stressed-out giraffe with the weight of Corporate America on his shoulders.  Now, after urinating all over a Napoleon-sized oppressor, Ned was King of the Cafe.  His shoulders felt light; his bladder felt lighter.  Corporate America was just a name for whoever the hell wrote his checks.

He looked around:  Carissa was a mess.  A victim of splashage, she was now damp inside and out.  The hipsters went back to talking about Indie Rock.  And the baristas, well, the baristas did something Ned had not expected.  They were cheering wildly!  They gave him head-nods and stuck their thumbs in the air!  One of the creative ones was spraying his coworker with steamed milk in a reenactment of Todd’s golden shower!

Why shouldn’t they celebrate?  Why shouldn’t they identify with a proletariat giraffe?  After all, hadn’t every member of the working-class, at one point or another, longed to piss on someone else for a change?

Ned, who had not seen that coming, smiled.  “They are all short,” he mused, "but they are not all bad."

Refreshed and purified by the hot flame of revolt, Ned knew the only thing left to do was stroll the four blocks back to his high-ceilinged apartment, throw on Animal Planet and rub one out.

And that’s exactly what he did.