Ron. Is Just A Monkey Man
It’s Friday and he’s seized in the morning with monkey madness; leaves his home with his pockets loaded with quarters for the vending machine. Two quarters buys a monkey sprawled on its back, scratching its belly, or a Heavy Metal monkey two fingers hooking the air, a careless tongue lolling. He buys another half-dozen monkeys, each in its own plastic bubble egg, knowing that when he gets home and shows them to his Beloved Sandra she will not smile and share his monkey rapture. No. She is decidedly not a monkey woman.
He likes to get up early, put a monkey in her shoe or her coffee cup; likes to rev up her morning with monkeys, likes to keep her guessing about where she’ll find one waiting, smiling up at her, casting its monkey benediction on the balance of her monkeyless day. When she finds it, though, she only curses it, curses him, hands it back to him and swears that she’s going to throw out the next damn monkey she finds. He knows it isn’t true.
He knows what she does not: that a day without its plastic monkey is like an itch without a scratch, like a carousel without a calliope, like a technicolor garden filled with black-and-white roses.
Our good friend, Call Me Cate, urges you to show your monkey face at: SHOW MY FACE.