I am a monkey.  At least, I dreamed I was a monkey.  How fun that was.  I swooped from tree limb to tree limb without a care in the world.  Well, leopards.  They are a care of monkeys.  Of course, there were no leopards in my dreams.  My dreams seldom have any problems.  Except the dreams where I am falling to my death.  But monkeys never fall.  Ergo, no problems.

When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares all the time.  Sometimes giants were coming after me.  Sometimes it was vampires.  Occasionally, it was some sort of boogey man type creature.  This was before my monkey days, so I always had to run from these monsters.  Invariably, my legs wouldn’t work.  I’m sure there is probably some sort of Freudian explanation for all of this.  EEEE EEEEE EEEEEEE.  But I am a monkey who eschews Freudian explanation.  I throw my own feces around for fun.  EEEE EEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

I only know one letter of your Arabic alphabet.  We speak monkey around here.

But what kind of monkey am I, you ask?  Stupid question.  I am a macaque.  Macaques are the only monkey who live in a northern climate.  Actually, there may be others, but I am too lazy to Google monkey facts.  I am also a monkey and not interested in your stupid Googling.  Feces throwing, that is my game.  Throw enough feces against the wall and some of it sticks.

That is monkey existentialism.  It doesn’t have to mean anything.  Don’t you have a damn wall to build or some people to bomb?  Nobody ever got hurt flinging shit.

The good thing about monkeyness is that your existence is simple.  There is no Suri.  Suri is a concept beyond the mind of a monkey.  Just because I can hear my stepson asking Suri a bunch of damn questions he could silently look up himself, does not mean I can comprehend a disembodied voice.  Besides, do you know where Suri is?

She is everywhere.  Except you cannot see her.

Suri is a digital Bigfoot.  Speaking of Bigfoot, I wonder how one would taste.  Perhaps a bit gamy.  But maybe I am selling them short.  I hear dog is not as bad as you’d think.

I just remembered another care of monkeys.  People often eat them.  But not this monkey.  I live in a virtual world.  Like Jesus or the Silver Surfer.  If either of them flung feces.  Come to think of it, Jesus kind of looked like a darker Bobby Sands.  (A little IRA joke there.  You don’t hear those every day.  Terrorism is not a joking matter.)

The Unabomber, Osama Bin Laden and Timothy McViegh go into a bar.  See?  It already sucks.  Plus, it makes no sense.  The Unabomber and McViegh hated people.  And Muslims don’t drink.  Of course, sometimes jokes are ironic.

Monkeys don’t get irony.  That’s iron-EEEE-EEEE to us monkeys.

I wonder if there is a macaque somewhere taking a nap right now and dreaming that he is the MO.  That would be extra freaky.  But would he really even know he was dreaming?  Hard to say.  Scientists are split concerning the notion of consciousness in monkeys.  You would think there would be a test.

Pass this test and you are self aware.  Fail, well…. it wouldn’t really matter.  Back to shit throwing.  It would be terrible to be a monkey with tennis elbow.  Just watching other monkeys slinging the old poop.  Sad monkey.  Very sad.

Perhaps I will be a monkey again tonight.

FSM willing.  Unless the FSM is only a figment of my imagination.

I wonder how the FSM would taste?  Like Italian, I suppose.

This is purely speculation at this point.  Nobody can say for sure whether the FSM is real or not.

Metaphysics is pretty much asinine.  I could be the Jackson Pollock of Wisconsin macaques.  I just need to be discovered.  In my dream.  Perhaps by the team from Inception.

I’m a monkey inside of a MO, inside a macaque, inside a MO again, inside a FSM, firing bolus’ against a dream wall.  That top will never quit spinning.

The top is you.  Or the shit is you.  Hard to say at this point.

You know, in some alternative universe this blog post is never over.  It is eternal.