Friday, August 20th, the year of our lord two thousand and ten. I got out of bed much as I do every morning, eyes mostly closed, and stumbled into the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth and emerged to get dressed and go running. There was nothing at all to indicate that this wouldn't be just another ordinary morning, no feeling of impending doom in the air, nothing.
As I do every morning, I ripped yesterday's page off of my cute-of-the-day calendar. My heart thudded in my chest and lodged itself somewhere in the area of my throat when I saw the horrible gargantuan beast pictured above leering out at me.
I backed away, moving slowly and deliberately as not to startle it or provoke an attack. I took my eyes off of it for a moment and scanned the room looking for something, anything I could use as a weapon to defend myself and my home. There were a lot of books and clothes and shoes, but not much else. I could brain it with a copy of Harry Potter or bludgeon it with a high heel. Great. My husband snored delicately, mercifully unaware that he was probably about to wake up to find his wife in 42 pieces scattered around the bedroom.
The giraffe advanced slowly, menacingly. Its razor sharp teeth dripped with thick, ropy saliva as it snarled ravenously at me. Its eyes glowed with a dull, angry scarlet light.
I backed up even more and found myself almost to the door when I saw it. A green lighter on my husband's bedside table. Neither of us are smokers, but we do like candles. Flattering boudoir lighting is a must to keep things romantic, especially after the honeymoon is over. What the hell good is a lighter going to do? You gonna light its tail on fire and hope it goes up like a Christmas tree?
My eyes moved past the nightstand to the bathroom door. I understood what I needed to do. The giraffe was still coming right at me, but slowly, like it had all the time in the world to savage my perfect, graceful body and feast on my creamy, baby soft flesh. I lunged for the lighter and then into the bathroom. I grabbed a can of my husband's Axe body spray off the countertop.
I suddenly remembered a recent exchange with my husband: I wish you'd try Old Spice bodywash instead of that Axe crap. Why smell like Spencer Pratt when you can smell like Isaiah Mustafa ? I couldn't for the life of me remember his response. Didn't matter, what really mattered was that there was a perfectly good can of flammable aerosol within my reach, whereas a bottle of Old Spice body wash, while tantalizingly masculine, probably wouldn't get the job done.
The giraffe, sensing its impending immolation, revved up its evil laser horns. I could see the electricity crackling between them. I knew it was ramping up to make its move. Too late, bastard giraffe.
I flicked the lighter. The flame, so tiny at first, became a deadly weapon as I sprayed the Axe body spray into it. I wielded my makeshift flamethrower proudly, and for a moment I was just as savage as the insidious monster in front of me. Impressively, the giraffe did, indeed go up like a Christmas tree, with a rather satisfying whooshing noise that warmed my heart. When the flames died down, only ashes remained. Exhausted yet triumphant, I set about cleaning up the disgusting layer of giraffe ash all over our bedroom before my husband woke up.
Try harder next time, bastard giraffe. I'll be ready for you.
Giraffes - 0, Jennifer - 4
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