Please say someone's brought in gyros for lunch,
and that it's not just a deodorant what's failed.

(Ew. I need to stop the decongestants already.
Heightened senses with no edit. Take these only at night.)

(And everytime I think of failed deodorant jokes,
I fondly think of you, Angry Czeck,
travelling cross-country in his surliness.)



Lately,
I've been thinking about getting a monkey.

This is Bobo.


Bobo lives in Reno with my dream job.
People just walk up to her
and hand her fistfuls of change
just for being a monkey.
I would gladly invest her cash flow for her.
No, really. I can see it now:


"Sweet, swollen baby of incubus!!
What's this $5,672.69 charge on my AMEX to...
Jungle Fever, LTD?!"

You bought a monkey, remember?
In the box over there. With the holes in it.
The chow was in the other box.
Here's a piece of what's left of it.
The dog ripped into it and ate it all.

"Damn these decongestants!",
flushing them down the toilet.

Apparently, dogs are allergic to discount monkey chow.
So, y'know, the couch is dead now is what I'm trying to say.
Phone's been ringing off the wall
from the organ grinder salesmen alone.


(Annnd, scene.)


My mom had a monkey when she was a kid.
My grandfather owned a *service station* and they bartered
with exotic animals like that. Go figure.
Whatever happened to the monkey?
He ran up a telephone pole and completed an electrical circuit.
Gzzzt.
Just like that.
Gives new meaning to a smoking monkey, I know.
It was for the best, my mom said.
He liked to run up on top of customers' heads,
part their hair, and bite.
(There's an idea.)
Being a monkey at a service station in Mississippi
in the 1940s will do that to you.

I didn't say it was a good story.