A rhino is anything but a dumb beast.
It stands impassive, always on flat ground, eyeing you like an elder who is too disappointed to speak.
A rhino is a natural gnostic, having been constructed by an amateur god who set out to make a dinosaur.
Knowing it has been welded together from the junk in a minor god's scrap yard, the rhino is under no illusions about mundane being.
Unlike the gazelle, fooled by its own lithe grace, the rhino knows it is trapped in matter.
This makes it resigned, and normally serene. But a rhino is also capable of sudden violence.
Placed low on the sides of its barge-shaped head, a rhino's beady eyes give it 290 degrees peripheral vision. This means it is subject to being annoyed by a wider range of things than you or I.
"I don't mind you hanging around here," those eyes say to anyone keen enough to read them, "but if you start making a nuisance of yourself, I will gore you with my horn and trample you under foot. Sorry."
A rhino is a creature that typically remains unimpressed.
It watches the cheetah's kill with disdain, almost as you would watch a young CEO showing off his Ferrari.
This and 42 other important public service announcements in my new book Idiocy, Ltd.
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