When funds ran dry, the president suggested they cross-market with homeless people, though the details were a bit sketchy in their initial proposal.
“Once the naked monkeys got out of hand, the gods became fed up with life on earth.”
So says Tom Robbins. Whatever. It’s not that I would have disagreed with him, mind you. I was simply too fed up with my own issues to calculate the consequences of godly worries, no matter how plural or pressing.
And as far as I was concerned, naked monkeys would have been a welcome addition to the funeral Kitty’s mother called a “party.” Now that would have been something to smile about.
Come to think of it, isn’t it a bit of a redundancy to identify the natural state of monkey attire, or, rather, the lack thereof ? Perhaps drawing attention to that detail heightens our interest towards — and maybe even elevates our fear of — hairy, hooting primates.
I mean, a monkey is one thing. But a naked monkey? Well, that’s a different story entirely. A monkey is cute, innocent, and playful. A naked monkey is mischievous, unpredictable, and lecherous.
If a monkey looks at you, you think, “Oh, he wants to play!” If a naked monkey looks at you, you avoid eye contact and start tucking in your shirt and shifting uncomfortably.
Yes, naked monkeys are decidedly and particularly menacing. Still, I would have traded being alone with a naked monkey for being confined to that stupid party.
Everything was so prim and proper, I felt handcuffed to a teacup that trembled between the thumb and forefinger of a stiff-backed queen who struggled to breathe through her corset. The women floated through the scene sighing disgusting things like “Just lovely!” and “What a pretty picture!” The unimaginative girls chattered on about the dullest things, like dollhouses, dress up, and make-up.
I was desperate to escape. I ached to fling my hat at the cake, kick off my shoes, hop onto the table and scream, “WAKE UP!”, then dance a quick jig while the ladies gasped, then giggle with glee and flee.
And now that I’ve thought it through, I’ve decided I do disagree with Mr. Robbins, although I confess my conclusion is anthropomorphic. If I were a deity looking over the sorry state of human affairs, I would let monkeys roam wild and free and naked without giving them a thought — no matter how nervous people felt around them.
I’d rather be inclined to be fed up with a lack of imagination and playfulness on the part of humans.
Toilet paper was her enemy.
Every time she was forced to perform her bodily duties, she sat and stared at the sinister roll, its deceptive whiteness concealing its teeth. She tried to tell her mother that she heard it snarling every time, but her mother dismissed her with, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
When her first record spiked on the charts, the first thing she bought was a closet full of two-ply, quilted Charmin.
After sixteen weeks three days seven hours and thirty-six minutes at sea, we were consumed by one thing and one thing only. I lay awake deep into every night fantasizing, mouth watering, about the moment when I would get mine. I knew the other boys were doing the same.
Towards the end, our superior officers gave up and called off all training; nothing broke through the haze of our daydreams. The water bumping rhythmically sang a chorus of pure desire, a primal humming intensifying the pressure.
Gripping our briefcases tightly, we scrambled off the boat before it even touched the dock, leaping across the chasm effortlessly.
We prowled in packs, eyes, ears, noses rigid and alert, exploring the air, probing for clues.
“Guys, check it out!” I hissed. A low whistle shuddered through the group. A quick pause to pinch ourselves internally.
“Just what we’ve been dying for,” moaned Francisco.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!” shouted Reggie.
We bolted in unison, shoving two bimbos out of the way, clawing our way through the crowd to get to the hamburger stand.