Saturday, October 25, 2003

I walked into the office yesterday, gentle reader, to find Test Monkey No. 5 swinging from chandelier to chandelier, screaming like an electrocuted banshee and flinging monkey poop as monkeys are wont to do. Within seconds, I fetched my hunting rifle from a secret receptacle near the door and trained it on his monkey head.

Before I could shoot him, however, he vaulted out the window and–did my eyes deceive me?–flipped me off with a hairy middle finger. I fished around my desk drawer for binoculars and found them. I looked outside. Where had he gone? Two hundred stories, the pavement stretched out below, yet there weren’t any monkey remains in sight. What annoyed me most was not that he had caca-tized my office, but that I had missed an opportunity to cap his ass. Back in ’99, I went on a safari in New York City to hunt bad street performers, and my fantastic aim had made the trip a rousing success.

Disappointed, I looked around and noticed a memo sitting on my desk. On top of it was a bunch of bananas, which I’m assuming acted as a paperweight. I tossed the bunch out the window, sat down in my (thankfully) untainted leather chair, and read what No. 5 had to say.

“Stack ’em to the heavens, stack ’em to the heavens,” read the memo, directing me toward this abomination.

Amazing! A literate monkey? A literate monkey that appreciates cartoon shorts featuring a possessed marshmallow? Monkeys, you see, are usually limited to a vocabulary of “EEK eek ook OOK eek,” followed by copious skull and ass scratching, so this was strange indeed. I looked out the window again to make sure he wasn’t on the pavement. Nothing. Stranger still, where had those bananas gone?