Standing on the shoulders of giants was so last summer, worse, so last two summers ago. Beautiful George picked a tired and quiet giant, made his way all the way through his pants and shirt and climbed to the very top. Now he was standing on the head of his giant. The view was much better, he did not have to listen to his stupid pedestal, he did not have to say anything either. This was the perfect place to command a view, to battle the elements, to win the hearts of those who were as clever.
The only thing he needed to do now was to keep his giant standing, walking, maybe even running. Who cares if one stands on the shoulders or the head of a giant, if the giant is so tired and burned out that he needs to sit down. Or can you imagine standing on the head of a giant who collapses? Better not think about such stuff now.
Let's play with birds.