Hector the Giraffe Escapes from Pablo Escobar's Menagerie
I checked my imaginary pet giraffe, Hector, into rehab today. It was difficult, and not just emotionally. The Dunes in East Hampton is lauded for its decadent quarters and lavish grounds, but I’d argue that any rehab facility that doesn’t mandate twenty-foot arch doorways and window access to Acacia trees is undervaluing market for imaginary methamphetamine addicted ungulates.
Hector was rescued from Pablo Escobar’s menagerie during the police raid on his estate. His mother, Assata, had been abducted from The Savanna against her will as a Quinceañera gift for Manuela Escobar, whose ample frame she was forced parade through the streets of Medellín amid cheers from onlookers. Her longing to return to Africa soon gave way to complete intoxication with the Escobar lifestyle, marked by an affinity for cocaine laden mangos, and an almost savage taste for human blood. One night, high on an eight-ball and feeling invincible, Assata surrendered her body to Pablo’s steroid fuelled attack giraffe, Alfonse, and after an abnormally short gestation, Hector entered the world, addicted to cocaine, coffee, and various opiates. By the time we stormed Escobar Manor in 1993, Assata was long dead, having fallen victim one of Manuela’s bouts of rage, and Hector was left to fend for himself. So I poured my life savings into having him flown to the States so I could raise him.
People thought me insane for spending so much money on an imaginary pet giraffe. My friends, Stefan and Steven, tried to hold an intervention, and even went as far as to have a therapist show up. “This is crazy” they said. “All that money on an imaginary animal?” I quickly pointed out that they were the crazy ones, having themselves spent tens of thousands of dollars to bring something as pedestrian as a real Asian baby to live with them. But I’m nuts for bringing a majestic imaginary giraffe with a top hat, running sneakers, and a monocle to live with me? Okay, guys.
It was tough at first. I managed to nurse Hector to health by weaning him off of cocaine with a cocktail of Redbull and Ritalin, but the solution was short lived. In spite of my outrageous healthcare premiums, my provider refused to cover brand name Ritalin for imaginary animals, and I’ll be damned if I was going to subject Hector to the generic bastardization that’s become all the rage amongst the nation’s peasant children. I took all the money I’d been saving for a stainless steel, Breville masticating juicer and put it toward Hector’s treatments, but even that was only enough to last a month, at which time I had to trust in Hector’s willpower, and dedication to the 12 step program he’d been attending. For years he managed to keep his old habits at bay, but as the 20th anniversary of his mother’s beheading/benecking at the hands of Manuela Escobar began to approach, Hector fell into his old routine. That’s when the trouble began.
Last night I had to work late at my night job with Sleep Hut International, and when I got home I found Hector passed out cold, his head through the kitchen window, his top hat nowhere to be found, and his monocle shattered on the floor. Enraged, I demanded he tell me what had transpired. I didn’t get much out of him, because he was unconscious and his breath reeked of cheap absinthe, but when he finally came to, boy did I get a tale. Hector spun me a yarn about three black, inner city penguins jumping him, forcing him to ingest meth, funneling alcohol down his long, silly neck and then proceeding to beat him without mercy. “Hector, do I look stupid to you?” I asked him as I struggled to disrobe from my mattress costume. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that penguins did this?!” Just the night before that he’d come home drunk at 4am with pupils the size of saucers, holding a woman’s prosthetic leg in his mouth. His monkeyshines were becoming more than I could handle, and I knew I couldn’t let his self-destructive behavior continue. I’m a man who addresses his problem head on (with the exception of the minor abandonment issues that led me to adopt a make believe, drug addicted, African beast) and I wasn’t going to sit idly by while my imaginary pet threw his pretend life away.
So, this morning I emptied my 401K and drove Hector to the The Dunes where I’ve enrolled him in the same four month rejuvenation program that helped Bjork’s imaginary narwhal Barnabas end a yearlong hording addiction that some pesky mermaid he was dating got him into. Hector will be just fine. He’s got heart for days, and if you can wean yourself off of Pablo Escobar’s cocaine mangos and live to tell the tale, alcohol and crystal meth should be a walk in the park.