do you know the monkey man? Tweet

Oh yes I know the monkey man, The monkey man, the monkey man, Oh yes I know the monkey man, That lives on Dristor lane. Today I refused a monkey. Smiling. It has attracted me the golden silence of an audience in awe, an audience of three, if not even voodoo performed about this hour of the night by the rightful of three. I did look in the face of that cute monkey—darn, they are cute!—and, finding no recognition in its eyes, gave it back smiling: no, ma'am, this ain't my monkey. I would give myself a big hand of applause unless my hands were full with my cute monkeys. In fact, my hands, my back, my pockets, and my backpack are swamped with an all-size monkey tribe that thrives on my blood—I mean, what kind of monkey man would I be to let any die? It begins to dawn on me, however, that a good monkey care taker cannot possibly be the mother of all monkeys, too; unless one chooses death. I choose not to choose death. The awakening came a few months ago, while welcoming another monkey to my bosom. The tag on the monkey—don't you hate 'em tags?!—contained a silly smiley and this voice message: you're only happy when it rains... monkeys. Pardon me?! I was so stunned that I took the monkey and left speechless. I played the voice message again and again in my mind until I got over the rage and it transformed itself into that lovely mantra, perception is reality. There it was, the root of all evil: myself and my obvious taste for cute monkeys. Of course nothing good happened when I got those monkeys moving; more took their place. My philosophy is, thus, achangin'. The world is a jungle: spend too much time with monkeys and you'll end up by being one. By God, they're funny! To the rest of the jungle. It is perhaps now that I really grasp what mom used to say many years ago: don't be their clown! Bad thing is that she never told me what to be instead, so here I am, nearly 30 y.o., still figuring it out. She also used to say: never marry a Romanian. Hey, mom, I got that, see? Photo found here.

P.S. Nevertheless, the checking-monkey-teeth practice is yet to follow; horses are embargoed, I know. Some of those monkeys are jumping on my keyboard as I write. They make 'em so small these days that they can even live on a memory stick and follow one home. Do you know it's bloody late, Bloody late, bloody late, Do you know it's bloody late, It's late on Dristor lane.