So, this guy has been staring at me for the last couple of hours.
And no, we don't normally have random four feet giraffe's hanging around the apartment. He is apparently a baby gift for one of Wife's friends. I'm not sure though, because if this thing was hanging out in my nursery, looking over at me in my crib, I think I'd be afraid. It's something about the eyes. They are too calm, like a serial killer. I half expect to turn around and find him holding (pawing?) one of the butcher knives. I don't mean to villianize a child's stuffed animal, but all I'm saying is that I better watch out while I take a shower. Or sleep with one eye open. Especially after I forced him to do the following. Because really, what good is a four foot giraffe if you can't have fun with it?
You can make him fix your lunch. Grilled cheese with ham please.
You can turn him into a bartender and ask him to pour you one. Then you can tell him all your problems.
You can turn him into a rock star and make him give you a private performance. Rock on!
You can convince him to better himself academically and make him go to and eventually graduate from law school. Emphasis on Animal Law, of course.
You can force him to make the bed.
You can then catch him taking a nap when he is supposed to be making the bed. This will not make you happy.
You can then play "Godfather" and mimic the scene where the movie producer guy wakes up to find his prized horse's head in his bed. Except, you know, with a giraffe this time.
And then you can make him sweep up the apartment with the giraffe-print broom. You know, just a subtle reminder that bad and disobedient giraffes sometimes don't get happy endings in the African Sahara. I'm just saying.