Monday, June 6, 2011
Palin Palin Palin
I am not political. I remain non-political, because I learned a long time ago, if you are going to play with pigs, expect to get piggy.
I could care less about republicans or democrats. They are all prostitutes and whores, selling what is left of their tattered souls to the highest bidder. The things they do for cash would disgust you if you knew.
That said, I think we can all agree that Jasper Flem is a fresh voice in the political world. He is a wealthy industrial who can not be purchased, at least for millions. He has great ideas, like ending subsidies for tobacco and corn and starting it for stem cells and Viagra. Mostly, he is not a whore and an idiot. I'm sorry, I take that back, he is an idiot.
Still, he is not Sarah Palin stupid, which is a whole new stupid. The nice thing about candidate Flem, he is not afraid to call a Palin an idiot.
All true, again.
Late last night I was driving home from an illicit affair and I hit a deer. Before I could even manage to grasp the situation, I hit another and as I tried to remember where the brake pedal was, I hit yet another. That's when I knew I should not be driving in that field.
Short cuts are always like that for me. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am lazy and sloppy and I will probably die with a piece of pizza in one hand a remote controller in the other. In fact, now that I think about it, that is exactly how I will die if I have any say in the matter.
Palmetto Becky emailed from Europe last week. She goes way back, to my Los Angeles days, when I was cash rich and suntanned. I met Palmetto Becky one morning when I was walking home from an orgy. I almost tripped over her, she was passed out in the entryway to the parking garage near the harbor. When I stumbled over her she screamed "who the fuck are you?" and we went for coffee. She spent a week on my couch and we have been friends for a long time. She is one of those women who is so effortlessly beautiful and naturally at ease, everyone who meets her likes her, wants to be like her, wants to sleep with her, wants to know what she knows.
She owes me a lot of money. When we met, all those years ago, it was one of those points in my life where people seemed to want to shovel money at me. So I lent Palmetto Becky some cash, kind of a lot of cash, with the understanding that before too long, she would pay me back. I saw her a couple of years ago in New York and without saying a word, she gave me a hundred dollars. I am not sure of the exact amount that she continues to owe me, but 100 dollars in a very tiny percentage of the total. She handed me the folded up bill, leaned into my ear and whispered, "part of the money I owe you." That was it. One payment over 20 years or so, one payment, 100 dollars.
Palmetto Becky, red hair, even today, long limbs, a flat stomach and an angular face that screams for a Picasso setting. She is half brilliant and a quarter insane, but almost 97 percent always fascinating. I used to drive a British racing green MGB in Los Angeles, and Palmetto Becky and I would smoke cigars and put the top down and ride Sunset, to Laurel, go up to Lookout and visit Houdini. Los Angeles is a dirty city and sometimes that's just the way it should be.
Palmetto Becky used to score weed from the Mexicans. She was so proud of the fact that she would say, "we should go score some weed from the Mexicans." Once I drove her to a small stucco house in Compton, we both got out of my tiny little sports car, walked into the home, the door closed behind us, we sat in a darkened room and a fat Mexican guy named Mexican Rick. He asked us what we wanted. Palmetto Becky asked what he had for sale and Mexican Rick asked "who's the fat Jew?" I did not think he would have been referring to me, because back then, while I may have been husky, it would have been a stretch to call me fat, and I was well tanned, but hardly anyone in Southern California would have mistaken me for a Jew. I mean, seriously.
"Are you talking to me?" I asked. Mexican Rick looked over at me, "I ain't talkin to you homes, I'm talkin to Palmetto Becky, you look like a Jew cop." That was actually true, I did look like a cop back then. Short hair, clear blue eyes, a healthy outlook and a decent diet. I looked over at Palmetto Becky, but she was looking at the table, where a giant bong was sitting. "He is most certainly not a cop," Palmetto Becky said, without breaking her gaze, "but I think he's a Jew." She grabbed a baggy, filled the bongs bowl and pushed it toward me. "Would a cop smoke pot?"
That day in Compton was the most fun imaginable. Mexican Rick was a great cook, or as good of a cook as one needs to be when his friends are baked. We spent a couple of hours listening to traditional Mexican music and telling stories. Palmetto Becky bought her pot and we stumbled back to the MGB, which was sitting, top down, in pristine condition, in the middle of what would have been Los Angeles most crime infested blocks. Go figure.
I accidentally got Palmetto Becky pregnant. There was a time that a woman could walk by me in a snow storm and 9 months later she would give birth, so it was no surprise that somehow Palmetto Becky ended up with child. She did not stay with child for long. A month or so in, she miscarried. It was an interesting few weeks of soul searching and some very serious adult type questions. When she lost the baby, it was the end of all those serious conversations, I believe we went surfing.
When I do hear from Palmetto Becky I never ask about the money. First, she always seems to call at a point where I am not desperate for it, and she never seems to contact me when I am. Palmetto Becky asked me if I was interested in moving in with her, somewhere in France, maybe learn to be a farmer.
I haven't responded, because really, if there is one thing I have learned about farming is this, farming is boring. Then again, my professor of microbiology once told me that "it would be a lot better if we all went back to farming and stopped trying to cure cancer so much." I did not say he was a good professor.
Short cuts are always like that for me. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am lazy and sloppy and I will probably die with a piece of pizza in one hand a remote controller in the other. In fact, now that I think about it, that is exactly how I will die if I have any say in the matter.
Palmetto Becky emailed from Europe last week. She goes way back, to my Los Angeles days, when I was cash rich and suntanned. I met Palmetto Becky one morning when I was walking home from an orgy. I almost tripped over her, she was passed out in the entryway to the parking garage near the harbor. When I stumbled over her she screamed "who the fuck are you?" and we went for coffee. She spent a week on my couch and we have been friends for a long time. She is one of those women who is so effortlessly beautiful and naturally at ease, everyone who meets her likes her, wants to be like her, wants to sleep with her, wants to know what she knows.
She owes me a lot of money. When we met, all those years ago, it was one of those points in my life where people seemed to want to shovel money at me. So I lent Palmetto Becky some cash, kind of a lot of cash, with the understanding that before too long, she would pay me back. I saw her a couple of years ago in New York and without saying a word, she gave me a hundred dollars. I am not sure of the exact amount that she continues to owe me, but 100 dollars in a very tiny percentage of the total. She handed me the folded up bill, leaned into my ear and whispered, "part of the money I owe you." That was it. One payment over 20 years or so, one payment, 100 dollars.
Palmetto Becky, red hair, even today, long limbs, a flat stomach and an angular face that screams for a Picasso setting. She is half brilliant and a quarter insane, but almost 97 percent always fascinating. I used to drive a British racing green MGB in Los Angeles, and Palmetto Becky and I would smoke cigars and put the top down and ride Sunset, to Laurel, go up to Lookout and visit Houdini. Los Angeles is a dirty city and sometimes that's just the way it should be.
Palmetto Becky used to score weed from the Mexicans. She was so proud of the fact that she would say, "we should go score some weed from the Mexicans." Once I drove her to a small stucco house in Compton, we both got out of my tiny little sports car, walked into the home, the door closed behind us, we sat in a darkened room and a fat Mexican guy named Mexican Rick. He asked us what we wanted. Palmetto Becky asked what he had for sale and Mexican Rick asked "who's the fat Jew?" I did not think he would have been referring to me, because back then, while I may have been husky, it would have been a stretch to call me fat, and I was well tanned, but hardly anyone in Southern California would have mistaken me for a Jew. I mean, seriously.
"Are you talking to me?" I asked. Mexican Rick looked over at me, "I ain't talkin to you homes, I'm talkin to Palmetto Becky, you look like a Jew cop." That was actually true, I did look like a cop back then. Short hair, clear blue eyes, a healthy outlook and a decent diet. I looked over at Palmetto Becky, but she was looking at the table, where a giant bong was sitting. "He is most certainly not a cop," Palmetto Becky said, without breaking her gaze, "but I think he's a Jew." She grabbed a baggy, filled the bongs bowl and pushed it toward me. "Would a cop smoke pot?"
That day in Compton was the most fun imaginable. Mexican Rick was a great cook, or as good of a cook as one needs to be when his friends are baked. We spent a couple of hours listening to traditional Mexican music and telling stories. Palmetto Becky bought her pot and we stumbled back to the MGB, which was sitting, top down, in pristine condition, in the middle of what would have been Los Angeles most crime infested blocks. Go figure.
I accidentally got Palmetto Becky pregnant. There was a time that a woman could walk by me in a snow storm and 9 months later she would give birth, so it was no surprise that somehow Palmetto Becky ended up with child. She did not stay with child for long. A month or so in, she miscarried. It was an interesting few weeks of soul searching and some very serious adult type questions. When she lost the baby, it was the end of all those serious conversations, I believe we went surfing.
When I do hear from Palmetto Becky I never ask about the money. First, she always seems to call at a point where I am not desperate for it, and she never seems to contact me when I am. Palmetto Becky asked me if I was interested in moving in with her, somewhere in France, maybe learn to be a farmer.
I haven't responded, because really, if there is one thing I have learned about farming is this, farming is boring. Then again, my professor of microbiology once told me that "it would be a lot better if we all went back to farming and stopped trying to cure cancer so much." I did not say he was a good professor.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Epic meal
So my young little baby daughter has turned me on to these internet meal makers and I am both appalled and incredibly jealous. It's a beautiful Saturday, the sun it out, our semi-retarded bird is chirp-a-lirping and this video is for you. Enjoy.
Friday, June 3, 2011
On being OK
I just returned from my morning yoga session and I have to say, I do not understand why more people do not take2-3 hours every morning and center themselves, find inner peace and also get a new muffler on their car.
Should be simple, right? I mean, what is more important than stretching and soothing your body, all the while getting your oil checked, a new gas filter installed and having them repair that little leak on your tail pipe. Right? Am I right?
Personal to Emailer: Why yes I am, thank you and thank you for that picture that did not leave a lot to my limited imagination. While I have never actually dated a member of congress, I did meet a senator in Minneapolis once....
Should be simple, right? I mean, what is more important than stretching and soothing your body, all the while getting your oil checked, a new gas filter installed and having them repair that little leak on your tail pipe. Right? Am I right?
Personal to Emailer: Why yes I am, thank you and thank you for that picture that did not leave a lot to my limited imagination. While I have never actually dated a member of congress, I did meet a senator in Minneapolis once....
Let the raping begin
So I have not been paying much attention to the former IMF chief who has been charged with raping a woman in New York. Oh, wait, did I say he was charged with raping a woman?
Oh, please, I am so sorry. I forgot I am part of the main stream media. Hang on a second. Former IMF head Dominique Strauss-Kahn will face a trial for rape allegations stemming from an encounter at a pricy New York City hotel with a maid.
Oh, that is much better. See, first, let's make clear that the suspect is a wealthy international business leader, who by the way, has a reputation with the ladies, if you know what I mean. Can you see me winking?
The key to this media abuse though is dehumanizing the victim. I was laying in bed this morning, listening to National Public Radio and they had a full story on Dominique Strauss-Kahn's sex scandal. The very first thing I noticed was how formal they made the suspect sound, you know, former head of the IMF, possible candidate for the French presidency, on and on. Oh, and he probably raped a maid. A maid? Yes, a maid, a lowly maid. Heck, the reporter seemed to be saying, a maid is not really even considered a real human, so the charges might not even stick, so to speak, wink wink, all that stuff, back to you.
What I found appalling is they could not bring themselves to describe her as, oh I don't know, a woman? No, they could not say she was a woman at her workplace. That I think might upset a lot of women. Imagine all the women in their workplaces today, thinking that the sweet middle aged banker with the adorable French accent was actually hoping to rape them later. No, see, that is just unpleasant.
As long as we can discount the incident by almost praising Dominique Strauss-Kahn's lifetime of leadership and success and discount the, chambermaid I believe she is called in European news accounts. Maybe if Dominique Strauss-Kahn had been giving a speech at Harvard and raped a professor backstage, then this would be a story that focuses more on the crime and less on the victims job or resume. The headlines would read "out of control French banker rapes educated professional woman." Of course, maybe she was a new professor, an interim professor, or even just a graduate student. I wonder on what rung of society a graduate student would land, certainly much higher than maid, but certainly not yet at the value of full professor, or secretary of state or something. Heck, this makes me wonder what a yokel like Sarah Palin would rate on the news reporters rape value indicator. I mean, certainly she portrays herself as a bumbling idiot, so a lot of people would assume she is often in rapes danger zone, then she does meet with well know business men, like a recent classy dinner with Donald Trump for pizza in New York. Maybe a rape occurred there. "Hair challenged megalomaniac charged with raping empty headed unemployed politician"
Maybe Dominique Strauss-Kahn will find some opportunity to rape a lawyer at his defense firm. Oh, that would be interesting. What if he raped a junior partner. Not a full partner, the headlines would be brutal. But a junior partner? Heck, " Dominique Strauss-Kahn charged with sexual assaulting junior partner in American law firm." We could diminish all rape victims, if the old "she had it coming" defense won't stick, then how about, "dude, she is only a maid." That seems kind of OK. Right?
Then all we have to do is really define the value of the victim. It seems the media has determined that a maid is probably OK to rape, so I called a friend at Fox News to see if I could get some information on just how rape victim's are valued.
Me; So, tell me again how this maid woman was devalued.
Fox; Are you recording this? You know it's illegal to record anyone without their permission.
Me; Dude, you work for Fox News.
Fox; So?
Me; Right. So, why is this woman always described as a maid, and not, you know, the woman who was allegedly raped by Dominique Strauss-Kahn?
Fox; Well, first, she is a maid.
Me; Right, but I can not remember the last time a rape victims occupation was her sole description.
Fox; Our policy is never to name the victim.
Me; Right, but in this case, all we hear is that she was a maid.
Fox; So?
Me; Well, every day in this country, there are a lot of women who are raped, and there are sometimes news stories about them, they may have been jogging, or walking in a park, or home alone, they are always described as "the victim in this case" or "a woman who was..." but this case is different, the suspect is always described as the IMF leader and all this other wonderful stuff, and the victim is always described as a maid.
Fox; And?
Me; And? And I say fuck you. I think you are trying to devalue this woman.
Fox; No, we are pointing out how they may have had contact.
Me; Bullshit. A rapist has contact with their victims where ever the crime takes place. Just because a woman was raped in her workplace does not mean that is how you should describe her. What if the maid was raped on her way to work, in the subway, would she have been described as a maid in the subway?
Fox; Possibly.
Me; Who makes these decisions?
Fox; I do not see your point.
Me; You media fucks have devalued this woman. A powerful man is accused of rape and all I keep hearing is maid this, maid that. The problem is, if she were a doctor, I am not sure you would not have been describing her only by her professional name.
Fox; I am pretty sure if the head of the IMF raped a doctor, that is exactly how we would have reported it.
Me; I wonder.
Then I hung up the phone.
Here is what I hate about our media. First, there will be a trial, so the media should leave this alone. Instead, from a quick google search, the media is digging into the background of the maid. Now, that does not happen often. It is frustrating to witness this particular crime, because what we are seeing is wealthy white man possibly taking advantage of his position, while a poor woman with no option is being made to look evil.
What I would appreciate from the business community, especially the raping banker community, is that from now on, before they rape their maids and other lowly staff, maybe they could rape one of their lawyers, hopefully a junior partner type, just so I can sit back and watch my Fox News TV device and listen as they describe the new IMF president, who has possibly been accused of somehow raping a lowly ivy league educated married mother of 3 junior partner at a law firm in a major city. Or they could just call her a victim of sexual assault.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The monkeys did it
I did get your email.
Yes I did.
See, here is what you may not understand. It's not always about you. I know, I get it. You have expectations. I understand. Yes. Let me sit down. The thing is, right now, it can not be about you.
As I'm sure you've heard, and since the vast majority of the people who read this blog do so in foreign countries, I will remind those who may not follow American news or Fox News as much as we do here in the states, what you have probably heard is that a group of fairly sophisticated monkeys, 17 of them, escaped from the local zoo and have just been running roughshod over the region.
It's true, that is all true, it's in all the papers. I'm serious.
Last week, I think a week ago today, no, make it two weeks ago, the plan fell into place. Now, the amazing thing, at least for me, some people have differing opinions, but for me, the most amazing thing is the relentless planning the 17 monkeys have been going through to not only escape all at once, but to also have created fake identities, rented a car from Admiral and even started running a card game in the Strip District. Many people, mostly the people I have been hearing calling conservative talk radio shows, have expressed the opinion that this is exactly what happens when you have a muslin liberal communist Kenyan running everything, or something like that.
My friend Becky called from the Space Station Felix to ask about the monkeys. Her first question? Tell me about the poo. That's the other thing, aside from the daring daylight escape, the rental car, the late night card club and bordello, oh shit, I forgot about the bordello, yeah, the monkeys are running a hugely successful bordello, brought in a lot of real good looking women from Cleveland. Again, that is just what I have heard on the local Public Radio station, which for the most part has terrible news coverage, but even a blind and deaf man could make an interesting story of 17 brilliant monkeys running roughshod over a city, taking up in the strip district of all colorful places. My lord, the story seems to write itself. The bordello was apparently incredibly successful and even more beauties from surrounding communities are right now on buses on their way here.
That's what I hear, any way.
A few of you might remember the story from a couple of years ago, the anti-gay right crazies were all over it. Seems that two monkeys at the zoo had been friends, then became friends with benefits and over time developed what was pretty obviously a relationship. The problem for some people was that the monkeys were named Bruce and Eric. I think it was Erick with a K, but I can't bring myself to spell it that way. Sue me.
Anyway, for a couple of weeks, there was all this talk from intellectuals, using Eric and Bruce as an obvious example that not only is homosexuality something that occurs naturally in nature (everyone then said, gross), but that long term committed love is possible in any relationship, or something like that. I found the story adorable because Eric had a belly. He looked like a middled aged bald man with a belly and I thought he was just adorable and if Bruce could find such a specimen attractive, then I say, more power to them. Of course they could not marry, not because they were gay, that was the least of the issues, I think the biggest problem was they were monkeys. Yeah, that was the real problem.
The city had a terrible debate about whether the zoo should have a wedding for Bruce and Eric. In the end, fall came and we all seemed to forget about it. Fall is not a good time for any sort of wedding, much less a gay monkey wedding. I would have gone though, just for the spectacle, because we can all agree the gays know how to do the wedding thing, one can only imagine the crazy shit in store for you at a monkey gay wedding.
No wedding ever happened and at some point, Eric and Bruce just kind of faded into some hidden area of the monkey pen. No one really talks of them, I can not remember the last thing I heard about them, until the escape, of course.
For the last two years, the long term, committed lovers have been creating all sorts of documents for the post escape life. They would need some sort of wallet, and inside would need to be some sort of drivers license, just in case. Credit cards were stolen from unsuspecting zoo watchers. The lovers spent months creating auto insurance forms, credit history for a created monkey person named Jupiter Meesvian. They were even able to get a credit card in Mr. Meesvians name sent to the zoo. Late one night they broke into the main zoo office and took it off a desk. That was 18 months ago. So think about that, over 2 years ago, these two brilliant gay monkeys were planning the details of life after escaping the confines of the zoo.
Of course, once people realized that 17 angry and bitter mistreated monkeys would be shitting any where they damn well pleased, the excitement of monkeys running freely around society became a distant memory, replaced instead with armed mobs of people wearing plastic suits and carriyng shot guns and other weaponry.
The first battle was all monkey shit. There were about 7 men in plastic suits, the had formed a line, probably not a wise thing to do. While they had cut holes in industrial trach bags, and wore these as ponchos covering their upper bodies, for the most part, their heads were open targets. Looking back, most people had not really expected the monkeys to have prepared with shit slinging devices of such accuracy and velocity that the hunters, in a matter of seconds, retreated, screaming, rubbing the shit off their faces and out of their eyes, shooting their guns in the air in a futile attempt to regain just a sliver of their manhood. Complete failures have more pride.
After that first encounter, the posses grew larger and better prepared. Which was wise, because the monkeys had made it quite clear, this particular battle was being played on completely different terms. One night, a band of monkeys broke into the most popular Starbucks in the city and spent the night urinating and defacating into the coffee machines. About 100 people were happily served their morning coffee before someone noticed the monkey turd in his latte.
The mayor gave a late night speech and said any monkey could be shot on sight. He even said people could keep the dead monkey as a prize. It was a weird speech really. I mean, looking back, it was hard to stomach, the mayor, asking his citizens to take up arms against 17 smart assed monkeys. Two of whom were out homosexuals. It all seemed so tragic.
And then they were gone. Over the weeks there were monkey shit storms that closed bridges. The postal service found mail boxes filled to the brim with monkey poop. Starbucks was not the only fast food restaurant that found monkey droppings mixed with the food, but as I write this a federal judge who was nominated to the bench by George Bush, has issued an injunction that will not allow me to mention the burgers at Wendys, McDonalds, Burger King, Sandys Shack, Colonel Flemmer and Maxines Hair Pie. Not one of them was mentioned. Although most people suspect each and every one of those restaurants has served and may continue to serve burgers filled in part with monkey poop.
The posse finally figured out that the monkeys had taken over a building near downtown. They set about mounting a 100 man contingent of drunks, crazies and right wing whackos with weapons to turn the place into a shooting range. They showed up at 9 at night and no one was there. The 100 men kicked in the door and rampaged the entire building, firing shots just to do it and making a complete mess. Since that night, there has been no sign of any of the monkeys. Investigators estimate that in the 2 weeks of freedom, from gambling, bank robbing, prostitution and meth making, they probably made close to 10 million dollars, and the mayor is always quick to remind people that the monkeys did at least that much in damage to the city, to personal and public property and to the entire image of the region.
It's really kind of sad. I was at the zoo this morning and the monkey cage is empty. There is a sense that one of those once in a lifetime moments has just passed. Then, while cruising the internet, I saw this. Wedding
Yes I did.
See, here is what you may not understand. It's not always about you. I know, I get it. You have expectations. I understand. Yes. Let me sit down. The thing is, right now, it can not be about you.
As I'm sure you've heard, and since the vast majority of the people who read this blog do so in foreign countries, I will remind those who may not follow American news or Fox News as much as we do here in the states, what you have probably heard is that a group of fairly sophisticated monkeys, 17 of them, escaped from the local zoo and have just been running roughshod over the region.
It's true, that is all true, it's in all the papers. I'm serious.
Last week, I think a week ago today, no, make it two weeks ago, the plan fell into place. Now, the amazing thing, at least for me, some people have differing opinions, but for me, the most amazing thing is the relentless planning the 17 monkeys have been going through to not only escape all at once, but to also have created fake identities, rented a car from Admiral and even started running a card game in the Strip District. Many people, mostly the people I have been hearing calling conservative talk radio shows, have expressed the opinion that this is exactly what happens when you have a muslin liberal communist Kenyan running everything, or something like that.
My friend Becky called from the Space Station Felix to ask about the monkeys. Her first question? Tell me about the poo. That's the other thing, aside from the daring daylight escape, the rental car, the late night card club and bordello, oh shit, I forgot about the bordello, yeah, the monkeys are running a hugely successful bordello, brought in a lot of real good looking women from Cleveland. Again, that is just what I have heard on the local Public Radio station, which for the most part has terrible news coverage, but even a blind and deaf man could make an interesting story of 17 brilliant monkeys running roughshod over a city, taking up in the strip district of all colorful places. My lord, the story seems to write itself. The bordello was apparently incredibly successful and even more beauties from surrounding communities are right now on buses on their way here.
That's what I hear, any way.
A few of you might remember the story from a couple of years ago, the anti-gay right crazies were all over it. Seems that two monkeys at the zoo had been friends, then became friends with benefits and over time developed what was pretty obviously a relationship. The problem for some people was that the monkeys were named Bruce and Eric. I think it was Erick with a K, but I can't bring myself to spell it that way. Sue me.
Anyway, for a couple of weeks, there was all this talk from intellectuals, using Eric and Bruce as an obvious example that not only is homosexuality something that occurs naturally in nature (everyone then said, gross), but that long term committed love is possible in any relationship, or something like that. I found the story adorable because Eric had a belly. He looked like a middled aged bald man with a belly and I thought he was just adorable and if Bruce could find such a specimen attractive, then I say, more power to them. Of course they could not marry, not because they were gay, that was the least of the issues, I think the biggest problem was they were monkeys. Yeah, that was the real problem.
The city had a terrible debate about whether the zoo should have a wedding for Bruce and Eric. In the end, fall came and we all seemed to forget about it. Fall is not a good time for any sort of wedding, much less a gay monkey wedding. I would have gone though, just for the spectacle, because we can all agree the gays know how to do the wedding thing, one can only imagine the crazy shit in store for you at a monkey gay wedding.
No wedding ever happened and at some point, Eric and Bruce just kind of faded into some hidden area of the monkey pen. No one really talks of them, I can not remember the last thing I heard about them, until the escape, of course.
For the last two years, the long term, committed lovers have been creating all sorts of documents for the post escape life. They would need some sort of wallet, and inside would need to be some sort of drivers license, just in case. Credit cards were stolen from unsuspecting zoo watchers. The lovers spent months creating auto insurance forms, credit history for a created monkey person named Jupiter Meesvian. They were even able to get a credit card in Mr. Meesvians name sent to the zoo. Late one night they broke into the main zoo office and took it off a desk. That was 18 months ago. So think about that, over 2 years ago, these two brilliant gay monkeys were planning the details of life after escaping the confines of the zoo.
Of course, once people realized that 17 angry and bitter mistreated monkeys would be shitting any where they damn well pleased, the excitement of monkeys running freely around society became a distant memory, replaced instead with armed mobs of people wearing plastic suits and carriyng shot guns and other weaponry.
The first battle was all monkey shit. There were about 7 men in plastic suits, the had formed a line, probably not a wise thing to do. While they had cut holes in industrial trach bags, and wore these as ponchos covering their upper bodies, for the most part, their heads were open targets. Looking back, most people had not really expected the monkeys to have prepared with shit slinging devices of such accuracy and velocity that the hunters, in a matter of seconds, retreated, screaming, rubbing the shit off their faces and out of their eyes, shooting their guns in the air in a futile attempt to regain just a sliver of their manhood. Complete failures have more pride.
After that first encounter, the posses grew larger and better prepared. Which was wise, because the monkeys had made it quite clear, this particular battle was being played on completely different terms. One night, a band of monkeys broke into the most popular Starbucks in the city and spent the night urinating and defacating into the coffee machines. About 100 people were happily served their morning coffee before someone noticed the monkey turd in his latte.
The mayor gave a late night speech and said any monkey could be shot on sight. He even said people could keep the dead monkey as a prize. It was a weird speech really. I mean, looking back, it was hard to stomach, the mayor, asking his citizens to take up arms against 17 smart assed monkeys. Two of whom were out homosexuals. It all seemed so tragic.
And then they were gone. Over the weeks there were monkey shit storms that closed bridges. The postal service found mail boxes filled to the brim with monkey poop. Starbucks was not the only fast food restaurant that found monkey droppings mixed with the food, but as I write this a federal judge who was nominated to the bench by George Bush, has issued an injunction that will not allow me to mention the burgers at Wendys, McDonalds, Burger King, Sandys Shack, Colonel Flemmer and Maxines Hair Pie. Not one of them was mentioned. Although most people suspect each and every one of those restaurants has served and may continue to serve burgers filled in part with monkey poop.
The posse finally figured out that the monkeys had taken over a building near downtown. They set about mounting a 100 man contingent of drunks, crazies and right wing whackos with weapons to turn the place into a shooting range. They showed up at 9 at night and no one was there. The 100 men kicked in the door and rampaged the entire building, firing shots just to do it and making a complete mess. Since that night, there has been no sign of any of the monkeys. Investigators estimate that in the 2 weeks of freedom, from gambling, bank robbing, prostitution and meth making, they probably made close to 10 million dollars, and the mayor is always quick to remind people that the monkeys did at least that much in damage to the city, to personal and public property and to the entire image of the region.
It's really kind of sad. I was at the zoo this morning and the monkey cage is empty. There is a sense that one of those once in a lifetime moments has just passed. Then, while cruising the internet, I saw this. Wedding
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