The last one who said to an indulgent giraffe, “How’s the air up there?” soon found out. Seized by the throat and slung through the air, winding up on top of a baobab tree, he dangles there, for all to see.
Your stately giraffe moves slowly, aloof, munching the leaves on acacia tops. His gait is so fluid wherever he goes that he scarcely walks but grandly flows. He drifts unafraid across the plain not simply because of his daunting height but because he has the sharpest hoof of any animal anywhere. So he strides abroad in broad daylight from tree to tree and crown to crown, quite undisturbed by might and mane, serene, sedate, elegant, and kindly disposed, hardly ever perturbed, patient, polite, the most forgiving of beasts—except for that one unpardonable gaffe that no one should visit upon a giraffe.
He is one of the world’s mildest, least excitable critters, but he simply explodes at that unseemly old joke coming from unoriginal, wisecracking smart-alecs, who love to show off. They get what they deserve.
Moral: Do not crack wise at someone tall—better yet, not at all.
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