I like Monkeys

[Senator Gracken]

I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought two hundred. I like monkeys.

I took my two hundred monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was mentally challenged. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sort of dropped dead. Kind of like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were two hundred dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had two hundred thrown rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one hundred ninety nine dead dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every thirty seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't go bad.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and one hundred ninety seven dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.

I tried throwing them away, but the garbage man said that the city wasn't allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they liked them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.