Tuesday, September 13, 2005

How the giraffe spent his make-believe future vacation

It seems Schtültenboobies and his pinkies won the election. It's the best we could hope for, considering the earth shattering stupidity of the general public. Myself, I like to celebrate election victories by pretending to be a screenwriter:

Interior. Basement. Day.
Damp, sparsely furnished concrete basement, perhaps somewhere in the former Soviet Union. SVETLANA enters through double steel doors, cursing and muttering under her breath. She is a large, able-bodied woman of indeterminable age, wearing a gray uniform and a red beret. No, make that raspberry.

The giraffe... That goddamn giraffe.

There is an explosion. The ceiling comes down in a cloud of dust. James BOND rappels down armed with a crossbow and a machete. He is wearing a ninja outfit with a large Union Jack covering the crotch area.

Hold it right there, sister!

(Frantically throwing knives at him)
You and that goddamn giraffe... You and him both!

Another explosion. A section of the wall collapses. The GIRAFFE, neck awkwardly bent, enters through a hole roughly forming a circle, only it has jagged edges, sort of shaped like bricks.


Get a life, you 18 feet of pure tedium!

Möööh! I woke up to another ordinary day in the year 2055. When I told the computer to open the blinds, I saw that the sun was already up...

You tell her, camelopard. Tell her about your day.

Not again. Every time the same goddamn story. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

...Oh no - I was late again! Amazingly, möööh, with all the fantastic new technology developed during the last fifty years, they still couldn't produce an accurate alarm clock. As I stepped into the bathroom my robot dog, Skip, started barking up my leg. "Not now, Skip" I said, "I'm late for school!" I distractedly gave him a kick, which really hurt, but did not dislodge him. He's made of titanium you see...

Shut up, you cud-chewing freak! Do you honestly think anyone believes your ridiculous fabrications?

...After a quick ion shower and a breakfast pill, I sprayed on my silver outfit and put on the rocket boots and bubble helmet. It was time to catch the morning shuttle for the moon. Why my parents thought it was, möööh, a good idea to let me commute 376.284 km every day, I don't know...

Tell her about the aliens, camelopard. Go on, tell her.

...Well, the shuttle was full of all the other giraffes, and robots, and, möööh, aliens. Some of the aliens were green blobs with three eyes and seven tentacles, but most of them were from the Balkans. I found a seat and strapped myself in...

Shut him up, for the love of God. I'll do anything. Anything.

...On my way, I went over my homework. The assignment was to, möööh, calculate Pi to all it's decimals. I wasn't sure I had it right, so I, möööh, I just put "roughly four"...

(Stabbing herself in the chest)

God, I'll miss her.


They exit in different directions.

That's all I have right now. As you can see, I'm experimenting with animals that are funny at the same time as they are not moose. The giraffe is just such an animal. Although it possesses many moose-like qualities, it is incontestably neither a moose (Alces americana), nor an elk (Alces alces). My use of the, möööh, diacritical umlaut is purely habitual, and may seem a bit forced in this context: The giraffe lives on the savannah, and does not, as far as we can tell, speak Finnmärscker. That aside, I think we can all agree that if my predictions for the future turn out to be accurate, and the giraffe does in fact get a life, the world will be a better place for all of us.

I would like to add that few, if any, giraffes were harmed in the writing of this scene. Maybe one or two. Eleven, tops.

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

Congratulations with the election. Are you somewhat satisfied? Now your computer has broken down? vif

6:44 pm  
Blogger Mikkel said...

It's difficult to explain. The short answer is: y%#.

12:25 am  
Blogger Mikkel said...

All right, since I can't recall anyone I know who has those initials, I'll bite.

Vålerenga Idretts-Forening? No, too obvious.

Valgkomiteens Internutvalg, Fitjar?
Vortesvin i familien?
Vi i Frankrike?
Vorfor ikke friskoler?
Virvarets indre fornuft?

Is it getting getting warmer? Colder?

It's an enigma. I guess the next logical step would be using my powers of necromancy to contact Turing and obtain the blueprints for the Bletchley Park Colossus. I'll be right back.

5:09 am  
Blogger MGL said...

Vertical Integration Facility (rocket launching)?

8:07 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

gettin´ increasingly colder

9:28 pm  
Blogger Mikkel said...

Venner i fædrelandet?

11:31 pm  
Blogger Mikkel said...

I give up.

11:32 pm  

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