MONKEYS 

    I like monkeys. 
    
    
    The pet store was selling them for five cents apiece. 
    
    
    I thought this was odd since 
    they are normally a couple thousand apiece.
    
    I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I bought 200 of them. 
    
    
    I like monkeys.
    
    
    I took my 200 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 really bright. They kept punching themselves 
    in the genitals.   
    
    I laughed. 
    
    They punched me in the genitals.  
    
    I stopped laughing.
    
    
    When I got home, I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well 
    to their new environment.  They would screech and hurl themselves 
    off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall.  Although humorous
    at first, the spectacle lost its 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 sort of dropped dead. 
    Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.  
    
    God 
    damn 
    cheap 
    monkeys. 
    
    
    I didn't know what to do.  There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my 
    room; 
    
    on the bed, 
    
    in the dresser,
    
    hanging from my bookcase. 
    
    It looked like I had 200 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 real 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.  
    Unfortuantely there was only enough room for two at a time,
    so I had to change them every 30 seconds.  I also had to eat all the food 
    in the freezer so it didn't go bad.  
    
    
    I tried to burn them, 
    but little did I know that 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, and 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 went and severely beat one of the monkeys.  
    
    I felt better. 
    
    
    I tried throwing them away,
    
    but the garbage man said 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 gifts.
    
    My friends didn't quite know what to say.
    
    They pretended to like 
    them, but I could tell they were lying. 
    
    Ingrates.  
    
    So I punched them in the genitals.
    
    
    God, I like monkeys.