You All of Sudden Care About Danish Giraffes?

by Marius the Giraffe Ghost as told to Joel Decker

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What up? I’m Marius, the Danish Giraffe everyone all of a sudden cares about. In case you’re not familiar with my plight, let me give you a bit of back story.

First off, I’m dead. Like, super dead. Did I die in a natural way like many other zoo bound animals do? No. I was shot in the head. That’s right. In the head. And not in the classic Abraham Lincoln way. No. With a bolt gun, Anton Chigurh style. “Kom dichterbij en krijg een verrassing.” they said which means “Come closer and get a surprise.” Oh, I did. I got a surprise alright. A surprise of a bolt to the brain. Danish sons of bitches.

After the bolt to the brain did they bury me with all the respect a magnificent animal such as myself deserves? Nah. They carved me up like a Kerstmis ham and fed me to the lions like the Romans used to do with mouthy Christians. Did they do this “behind the scenes” where at least the degradation of dismemberment wouldn’t be witnessed by humans I’d never met? Nope. They chopped me up right there in front of a whole bunch of adult humans AND kids. That’s right. “Well, I think my fear of life began when I was seven and I saw a giraffe carved up and fed to lions.” Danish therapists are gonna have a lot to work with in about ten years.

Why was this done? Well, from what I’ve been made to understand it’s because they were afraid if I got to bonin’ it’d create quite the inbreeding problem. Instead of surgically making sure I couldn’t bang away, they killed me. If we killed everyone for fear of inbreeding, Wal-Marts across America would be empty by daylight. They even had offers from many other people willing to take me in to avoid my being slaughtered. That obviously didn’t happen because I’m dead.

Sure, giraffe heaven isn’t all bad. Tons of tall ass trees with delicious giraffe food. Also, no insane Danish fellas with bolt guns and machetes. I still would have rather been given a shot at life on Earth though. I was a year and half old. Giraffes can live to be 25 years old. I kind of got ripped off all because of some murderous Danish psychos. Then again, being dead made me realize I’m just one giraffe. In the time it’s taken you to read this fake story about me, thousands of humans have died across the globe from horrible things. Hunger. Cancer. Murderous psychopaths. Do I wish I was still alive? Sure do. However, internet outrage over my obvious horrible slaughter isn’t gonna make me not lion lunch. It’s awful and should be talked about and dealt with, but on the list of things one should concern themselves with, maybe my dismemberment should be pretty far down on the list. I mean, last week no one was championing the cause of any giraffe related anything. Yet here we are.

If my death can accomplish one thing, I hope it’s people begin to reassess what they hold important. If all of this instant rage over what happened to me, which was awful, can somehow be channeled into a constructive impact to help fellow members of the human species, maybe it’s not so bad. Instead of seeking the firing of a Danish zookeeper, which should absolutely happen, go ahead and do some research on how to help people in your own neighborhood. There’s homeless people everywhere, and I don’t hear near as much outrage over that situation as I have about my death. Yes, it was horrible. No, it shouldn’t have happened, but for crying out loud, take a look what you hold important.

Never mind. You probably won’t pay attention to a giraffe ghost. I wouldn’t.

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