I like monkeys.
The pet store was selling them for 5 cents apiece. I thought this was unusual, since they were normally a few thousand dollars. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I bought two hundred of them. I like monkeys.
I took my two hundred monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one of them drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were very bright. They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed. They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn’t adapt too well to their new environment. They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humerous at first, the spectacle lost it’s novelty halfway into it’s third hour.
Two hours later, I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive. They all died. No apparent reason. They all just dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and five hours later, it dies. God 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 throw 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 to pretend that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for awhile, that is, until they began to decompose. It started to smell really bad.
I had to pee, but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and I didn’t want to call a plumber. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately, there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them out every thirty seconds. I also had to eat all the food so it didn’t go bad.
I tried to burn them, but I didn’t know that my bed was flamable. I had to extinguish the flames.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkey in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn’t improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I really had to use the bathroom. So I severly beat one of the monkeys. I felt better.
I tried throwing them away, but the garbageman said that the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him I had a wet one. He couldn’t take it either. I didn’t bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas presents. My friends pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.
I like monkeys.