Infinite MonkeysDave asked me this evening if I wanted to be a monkey. So I sat and I drank, and I drank and I thought. And this is what I thought:
To be a monkey, one must understand what makes a monkey. What is that stuff that puts the prime in primate? What are the core qualities that define the very essence of simianness? ness?
Is it the bullheaded resolve to pore perpetually over the coarse fur of life, picking feebly at the swarming nits in the vain hope of finally stopping the damned itching?
Is it the thrill of the hunt, punctuated by the deeply satisfying thud of a damned dirty lemur striking the ground, moments after being dislodged from his tree by an impeccably aimed lump of your own excrement?
Is it the simple joy of masturbating furiously to the amusement and shock of the busload of impressionable schoolchildren who came to gape at you?
Is it the uncontrollable primal urge to construct a clumsy metaphor about blogging and stretch it a good quarter mile past the breaking point?
Yea, being a monkey is all these things and more. Sometimes, for instance, a monkey must vote, or argue about The Smiths.
This I thought, and I also drank, and then I said, "OK." And now, I guess, I am a monkey.
Come closer, children, I have something I'd like to show you.
Posted by Poochucker at January 26, 2006 10:58 PM