A terrible toothache and an out-of-body
song lifted Manny's spirits high – as high as the drugged little
monkey in his back pack. Manny had been in the habit of carrying one
of several drugged monkeys in his sporty canvas backpack, and from
time to time he would let the monkey run free. Have you ever seen a
drugged monkey running free? Do you remember how I said this would
happen in the “Cosmic Cock-time”? Well, it has come to pass.
Perhaps we are living in the Cosmic
Cock-time. Perhaps. I like to think that we are.
Manny's drugged monkey (when let free)
ran straight for a muffin that lingered upon a fence post and that
glistened in the morning sun. Large-crystal sugar stood proudly on
its golden surface. The monkey reached for the muffin and upon
lifting it from the post revealed its lack of depth. Such a shabby
little muffin top would be sure to taint the palate of a drugged
monkey, and Manny knew this. He unsheathed his flyswatter and waved
it furiously at his sweet little drug-sotted primate. It was no use,
for drugged monkeys love muffins, no matter their sorry state.
Public outcry was overwhelming. Calls
for the ban of inferior quality muffins echoed through the valley,
and lawmakers thumped their chests and gave grand speeches.
Performance artists slapped raw meat against themselves and dribbled
latex paint into their navels.
Muffin bakers shook with fear.
The level heads never prevailed and
soon the inferior-quality muffins were no more. Church bells rang.
Lawmakers thumped their chests and gave grand speeches. Performance
artists giggled as the latex paint in their navels dried and
contracted, producing a most pleasant and arousing sensation.
Manny strolled out in the bright sun of
a warm, new day, and released the drugged little monkey from his
backpack. The monkey ran straight for a slightly deformed brioche
that sat upon the fence post.
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