The pet store was selling monkeys for five cents a piece. I thought this was odd since they're normally a couple thousand. 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 Jorge. He was retarded.
In fact, no of them were really 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 well to their new environment. They would screech and hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds, and slam into the wall.
Although, humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty half way into its 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. Kind of like when you buy a goldfish
and it dies five hours later. Dang 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 a while, this 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 a enough room for two at a time.
So, I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all of the food 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.
The odor wasn't improving.
I became agitated by my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I really had to use the bathroom.
So I went and severly 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 away as Christmas gifts.
My friends didn't know, quite what to say. They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying.
Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.
I love monkeys.
READER'S REVIEWS (3) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"I haven't been able to fathom a thing about your monkey business. I'd like to believe you suffered a bad dream. Be careful what you buy when you are out on shopping the next time around. Good Luck!" -- Duke.
"Ok, I see some of y'all been drinkin' your haterade. For you haters of a writer who thinks of crazy things and turns them into a story. This story shouldn't be that hard to understand. The guy bought 200 monkeys they died and he couldn't get rid of them so he gave them out as gifts. This was not something I dreamed of. I just had a thought one day. So, any positive feedback would be pleasant :o) " -- sara.
"I read the story, then I read your response to Duke's review. The most revealing sentence in your response is the second last one: "I just had a thought one day." My advise is to be more selective in choosing the thoughts you write about. On the other hand, you probably shouldn't write about any of them. " -- Richard.
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