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Aye monkeys. Monkey are trouble. Monkey see monkey do, monkey ski-doo in monkey doo-doo.
So like this one monkey is frustrated. Maybe his bananas weren’t ripe enough or maybe they were too ripe. Or maybe some other monkeys flung shit at him and he didn’t like. I mean, who can tell with monkeys anyway: for being humble little primates they are quite complex and there could be all sorts of wacked out and upsetting things going on in any one of their little lives.
So anyway where was I, oh yes, the poor little frustrated monkey. So this unhappy and disgruntled monkey was jumping up and down and yelling his little monkey heart out because his little monkey heart had had enough of the little monkey world it had to close itself off to more and more each day. He had to close off his little monkey heart to the little monkey world because the little monkey world was a hell hole. OK, maybe it wasn’t such a hell hole, but it sure weren’t no eden either, and god damn that god who cast out that monkey’s monkey and his partner merely for trying to get to know a little bit about something or other—but of course all the problems come down to something or other.
So where were we again? Oh yes, the poor little monkey with the broken and closed heart. What do you mean I didn’t tell the tale about his heart being broken? Well shit, I didn’t thin I’d have to because I thought you’d be smart enough to figure out that a heart that is closing is a heart that is breaking. So one day it all broke and the monkey, like I was saying earlier, started jumping up and down and making a big fuss—screeching at the top of his monkey lungs.
Well, those other little monkeys, bless ‘em those poor little monkeys with their own monkey hearts in various states of closure, and so, various states of being broken, those other monkeys also started jumping up and down and screaming and screeching. So pretty soon, there was a whole baboon’s butt load of these poor little monkeys jumping up and down and raising a big stink. And boy did that stink smell. I mean, you got these monkeys jumping around and throwing shit and screeching, and it makes for a comedy—but you, not the slap stick kind of comedy, but more like the tragic kind of comedy. You know, the kind of comedy that makes you laugh until it hurts, because really, the hurt is there all along, but you keep it a closed off and try to ignore it until something reminds of you of it, something that’s designed to be funny in the tragic way.
Maybe like that pack of enraged monkeys: designed to be funny in a tragic way. Or designed to be tragic in a funny way. I mean, who can tell these days anyway? Or better still who could ever really tell? No, it really isn’t a telling, but more of an opining, which is something monkeys would be prone to do, if only they could talk. But no, they don’t talk so much as makes noises. This is especially the case when the shit flinging starts and no monkey really cares about any other monkey other than his or her own monkey. And that’s why we talk about having a “monkey on your back.” Because we’d like to pretend those poor little monkeys are only on our back, and not in our heads. |
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