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"Monkeys: And Why We Care" A Novelette by chickie legs

2005-08-14 @ 11:59 p.m.

"Monkeys: And Why We Care" A Novelette by Chickie Legs

So as Ricky mentioned in the entry most previous, I have not updated frequent enough to his liking. My reasons are not original, nor interesting, nor funny..but they are going to be made up to appear to be as such in the paragraphs now commenced...

For the last six weeks (rounded up to the nearest six weeks), I have been on a Monkey-huntin' adventure in Maine.

"Maine?", you ask?

"Yes, Maine."

"M-m-m-monkey huntin?", you stuttered.

"Y-y-yes", I mockingly retort. For it was not until I ventured into the Main Maine Outback that I realized that there was, in fact, a population of zero monkeys in Maine. Excluding of course the seemingly unknown Kingokeys. Which are in actuality humanoids that stalk and throw bananas at their local hero, Stephen King.

"King me!" I yelled as I beat the King of the Kingokeys in chess later that Monday. Or checkers. Or whatever that game is where you are kinged. Actually I think it was Uno now that I'm thinking about it. Isn't that the one where you yell and throw feces at each other?

Anyway, so even though it only took me a day and a half to realize the lack of monkeys in our most Northern of States, (minus Alaska), I still had another five weeks and five and a half days and five hours and five fifteen increments left for my monkey adventure. Once the astronomical odds of the number five being so prevalent was realized, I decided to jump my monkey-ship to Vegas. However it was not until then that I realized how expensive my unnecessarily gold-rimmed and diamond-encrusted-Monkey-semi-sweet-semi-automatic-rifle was. I had no money left over for my now completely unwarranted trip to Vegas.

"What are the chances that there wouldn't be any Monkeys to kill in Maine? Why did I fly up here to kill Monkeys anyway? Why am I naked and throwing feces?"

As I became more and more increasingly and randomly inquisitive, I noticed out of the corner out of my eye that the Lord of the Pants himself, Mr. George Zimmer was standing a mere 20 yards away. I quickly changed gears and ran towards him. I interrupted what appeared to be a one-sided conversation between him and himself.

"I'm George Zimmer, and I guarantee it...wait, no. 'I guarantee that I'm George Zimmer.' CRAP! 'Zimmer is a guarantee, by George!"

"Sir, um who are you talking to?", I asked trying to hold back tears of laughter.

"Excuse me miss, I'm sorry, but I'm practicing for my next tv spot for my store, 'Men's Warehouse'. Perhaps you have heard of it? And *sniff sniff* ..you smell like ...what is that? I'm George Zimmer, and I guarantee that you smell insanely awful"

"I just smell over-priced suits. Oh yeah, that's you..Me? Yeah, that's monkey feces, don't ask. Anyway I am on my way to Vegas, but I don't have any money. I know you have money, you're the founder of the greatest, most wonderful of cheap suits superstores! In a warehouse, no less! I'm sure you're loaded. I mean, come on, you're George Zimmer. You guarantee shit."

"It appears you are the one that deals with shit miss, not me. Our suits are insanely awesome. I'm George Zimmer, I guarantee it".

"You sure do make a lot of guarantees, sir. Is there anything you don't guarantee?"

"Well. Come to think of it, no. I think you have touched something there, young stinky lady. I do guarantee everything. What does that say about me? That I have the innate desire to please? Do I feel unfulfilled if I do not somehow, satisfy people with my suits? Come to think of it my wife did leave me 10 years ago and I haven't heard from my kids George Jr., Georgette and G.E.O.R.G.E. in almost four years. I'm George Zimmer, and I can guarantee that I'm feeling a little down in the dumps right about now..."

"I'm sorry about that Mr. Zimmer. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. You do have a great organization with lots of fancy men's suits in a very large warehouse type of building... and you have a very unusually deep voice with a weird sort of facial hair thingy going on there. Almost as if you fell asleep in a plate of gravy and you just never wiped it off. Whatever the case, you should be proud of yourself and your incredible desire to please the public with your wickety whack tight men's clothing."

"Thanks young lady. You have opened my eyes today. I just happen to have a wad of five thousand, five hundred and fifty five dollars in my pocket, here you go. My name is George Zimmer, and I guarantee that I'm feeling a little better now."

"Wow, thanks Mr. Zimmer. When I become a famous Queen of the Kingokeys I'll be sure to have the Men's Warehouse be my official sponsor. My name is Chickie Legs I guarantee that you're cool wit me homey."

It was just a few five minutes later that I fell into a pothole and passed out for about five weeks.

...Yesterday, I awoke bobbing my head in the Bangor hospital to the song of "Steppin' Out" by Joe Jackson. As I looked around and saw my loved ones and friends and a few midgets standing around me, I jumped up and sang the eerily inappropriate lyrics:

"Now... the mist across the window hides the lines..but nothing hides the color of the lights that shine...electricity so fine..look and dry your eyes..."

YES! Eat that Stephen King!

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