I discovered these memoirs written in fecal matter on pieces of newspaper and napkins on my doorstep one day addressed to “The Guy Who Writes Things For The Internet.” It’s taken me awhile to get the words translated to paper, and more time to add some appropriate artwork, but I believe it is finally ready for publication. This may be the most groundbreaking and awesome thing you read in this lifetime, so prepare yourself. You might want to use the bathroom first. You Ready? Okay, you may now read.
PART ONE
Monkey Origins: Amazonia…
I have led an interesting life, far more interesting than most people. I’ve done many things, some I’m proud of, others, not so much. This is not the life I envisioned I would be leading, but I wouldn’t change a thing. They call me Michael Jackson’s monkey, though you’ve probably never called me that because prior to a few seconds ago, you didn’t know I existed. I bet you’re probably wondering why they call me MJ’s monkey, and I’ll answer it, partly. They call me a monkey because I actually am a monkey, which just blew your mind because monkeys can’t write memoirs, right? Well, I’m writing this, so you doubters can go sit on a flag pole.
Everything will be explained to you in time. Why I’m writing this, how the Hell I’m able to write this, my name, who shot J.R., just everything. I hope you enjoy my tale, and tell it to your friends, and maybe link it on Facebook so I can become a really famous monkey, and maybe then they’ll give me a book deal and I can go on Oprah and fling poo at her because seriously, I hate her ass. Okay, maybe that was a little over the top, but I’m not making revisions because, have you ever tried to erase a poop smear? It’s not easy, is it?
My story begins like that of many other capuchin monkeys: I was born in a small monkey village in the Amazon rainforest. My mother was a good caretaker, but not very bright, as she would freak out every time she saw her reflection. My deadbeat father was never around, always roaming the jungle looking for new ways to get stoned. When he was carried off by a Harpy Eagle one day, I felt no pity.
By the time I was 5 years old and fully grown, I realized this village I lived in kinda sucked. We had no running water for one thing, and there was an unhealthy obsession with our own fecal matter that stays with me even today. Hell, our main sport was the Poop Shoot, a crap flinging contest that measured one’s accuracy and quality of ammunition of our sacred weapon. When not worrying about poop, we worried about what we were going to eat to make poop. Berries and tree nuts were good fare, but once we started picking up lizards from off the ground and eating them, that’s when I realized everyone was really stupid. I came to recognize that I was the only self aware monkey in the village.
I started planning my escape from the village when I was 6. No one would miss me, they already thought me strange for not playing any Monkey Poop Games and for refusing to eat dung beetles, which had become the new fad. It seems so obvious now why a bug with poop right in its name would become popular with monkeys of that caliber.
I climbed to the top of the tallest tree one night, calling to the heavens to save me from these relatives I had, because they were all morons. And in response, the clouds let loose a torrent of rain, which happens on occasion in the rainforest. What was new was the bolt of lightning that came down from the sky and set the tree next to me on fire. Monkeys started fleeing from the blaze. I ran to help the trapped monkeys before I realized that I really didn’t care about any of those fecalphiliacs. So, I turned around and fled into the jungle as more trees started burning.
I made my way to the top of a nearby hilltop and surveyed the damage. My entire monkey village had burned, leaving a giant black scar on the rainforest. Monkeys were in the middle of the brand new clearing screaming things and flinging poop ash. So, with resounding finality, I mooned them, even though they couldn’t see me, and went into the jungle, never to return.
I had a fine time traveling through the rainforest, though every life form I met tried to kill me. I fought snakes, army ants, Venus fly traps, even a couple of trees that tried to strangle me with their vines. But my greatest foe proved to be the animal that had claimed the life of my useless father, and now wanted to make a meal out of a far more worthy adversary: the Harpy Eagle.
The bird got the drop on me, I will admit. If I hadn’t bent over at just the right moment to grab some delicious berries, the damn thing would have gotten me. As it was, he swooped right over my head, going back up into the sky for another pass. I was not about to have my story cut short by some raptor with an attitude problem, so I looked around quickly for any weapons I could find. I came up with a sleeping snake that was suddenly roused to attention when I grabbed him by the tail and swung him around and around, mostly to keep him from biting me.
When the Eagle came back down to try to grab me, I flung my reptilian slingshot, striking that bitch right in the beak at high speed. The Eagle lost control, crashing into the ground with resounding force, coming to rest in a large pile of poop. Poop features prominently in my story, in case you hadn’t already figured that out. The snake had been killed on impact, it’s spine shattering with the force of my mighty forearms. The Eagle was still alive, and seriously pissed off. But, a crumpled wing meant it couldn’t fly, so it hopped over to me and tried to peck my eyeballs out. I was forced to use my monkey martial arts and we engaged in a kung fu battle on the forest floor. Shouts of “Hi Ya!” and “Squawk” permeated the air.
I finally defeated my opponent by picking him up bodily and giving him a John Cena FU right into the River, where he was then consumed by the piranhas that are freaking everywhere in that river.
I continued on my travels, until one day I was shot in the ass with a tranquilizer dart. At first, I thought I had been bitten by some strange insect until a human in camouflage came out of the forest and told his friend that this would be a fine specimen for laboratory study. I was put into a cage as I fell unconscious, and was asleep for several hours before I woke up on a plane. My time in the wild was over. I had been taken INTO CAPTIVITY.
PART TWO
In Captivity
Why the damn people that captured me had to bring me to America in the loudest, clunkiest, most decrepit airplane that was still capable of flight I will never figure out. The ride to my new home was miserable. My ass still hurt from the tranquilizer dart (seriously, did they have to hit me with an armor piercing dart or whatever the hell that was? It felt like they stabbed me with a rusty screwdriver.) and I was groggy from the shit that dart pumped into me. Plus, I was pretty sure the pilot learned his aircraft control from playing Microsoft Flight Simulator.
We finally landed at a private airfield after what seemed like two weeks. The runway was made of dirt, which really improved my comfort level when we were bouncing up and down like a kid in a bouncy castle. It wasn’t until I was offloaded that I realized the entire cargo hold was loaded with animals. There were a half dozen other capuchins that I didn’t recognize, and one that I did: Cousin Elmo. I refused to acknowledge him when he waved his arms at me.
There were also a bunch of other kinds of monkeys, a bunch of other animals, and even a Harpy Eagle. I could tell from the look in his eye that he knew I fed one of his close family members to the Fishes. I was offloaded last. We were put into a cargo van and driven to a large white building. A sign on the front proclaimed it to be MURDERFACE LABORATORIES “where we airquote care airquote about animals.” Oh goody. Sounded like a place where I could have a time and a half.
The walls were spattered with blood, the scientists were all nuts, and I was a tad concerned for my welfare. I wasn’t sure what they were going to do to me, but for some reason I knew it was going to involve exposing my internal organs to the light of day. The crates were put into a holding room, also covered with blood for some reason. Then, a scientist walked in. He was wearing a large hat, a malevolent smile, and blood soaked leather pants. He was the man who would shortly become my mortal enemy: Crocodile Dundee.
Never in my life before or since have I ever seen an Australian so evil, so twisted, so vile. When he spoke, it was with a voice that made puppies cry. “G’Day, mates! My name is Croc Dundee, and I’d like to welcome you to my version of Hell on Earth! I’d like to start out by telling you that you’re all gonna die here, and it will most likely be very painful. Why, you ask? Well, because I’m evil, and this is what evil people do. Also, this.” And with that, he opened the cage containing Cousin Elmo, took out my scared kinsman, and BIT HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF. Just bit it off, and spat it out on the ground. He carried out the corpse of the monkey, laughing maniacally. And that’s when I realized that I was incredibly, completely, inescapably fucked.
Days passed, and I remained in my cage in the holding room. Every once in a while, Croc Dundee or one of his cronies would come in and take one of the animals out of the cage. None of them ever came back. I formulated a plan for what I was going to do when they came for me. I wasn’t going down without a fight. Finally, Croc Dundee came into the room with his sights on my cage. I gave myself over to the Force, knowing what I must do. When he opened the cage door, and stuck his face right in the doorway like a total moron, I reached back and flung poop at him. The excrement hit him right in the eye, and he squealed in pain. Yes folks, Croc Dundee, manly villain, fucking squealed. Like a pig.
(Ha! I just used two Deliverance references in a row, and no one can stop me! AHAHAHAHA!)
He fell over, and I made my move, springing forth from the cage like a monkey getting out of a cage really fast. Two scientists came in, alerted by aforementioned squealing, and I quickly neutralized them with my Monkey Fu. They also conveniently left the door open. I made for the door, only to hear a squawk. The Harpy Eagle was the only other animal left in the holding room besides me that hadn’t been murdered, and was still trapped in his cage. I was extremely, extremely tempted to leave his ass there, but then I felt bad. Dumb conscience, I’m never going to get out of here with these annoying morals!
I leapt back up to where the stupid bird was and let him out of the cage using a key card from one of the scientists (yes they had key cards. They took their animal murder extremely seriously.) I climbed up on the Eagle’s back and we blew through the door. Alarm bells were sounding, scientists were arming themselves, and I started up my Poop Flinging Machine Gun. Many scientists were taken down by my nutty poop, and many more were just grossed out by it. Then some idiot opened a door, and we escaped from the MurderFace Laboratories. We went high up into the clouds as Croc Dundee burst out of the door. “You can run mate, but you can’t hide! I’ll find you if it takes me 50 years, you wanker!”
We did it! We had escaped from certain death, and were now free! But, where the Hell were we?
PART THREE
On the Lam.
We had escaped the laboratory, but I had no idea where we were. Arid looking desert stretched in all directions, with some mountains in the distance. I finally deduced we were in New Mexico. I wish I could say I figured it out by looking at a unique cactus, or some other method that makes me look smart, but actually, I just saw a sign.
It was hot. It was dry. It sucked major ass. Remember, I’ve spent my entire life to this point in the rainforest, which is the exact opposite of the climate I was in now. The Harpy Eagle wasn’t faring much better, he was visibly tiring from the effort it took to keep us in the air. Finally, after flying for what seemed like a week, we stopped at the banks of the Pecos River to refresh ourselves. It was there that me and the Harpy Eagle had a long talk. It turned out his name was Steve, and he was a nice guy. Hard to imagine from a bird that makes meals out of monkeys, I know.
We decided to go our separate ways, but not before Steve dropped me off at the nearest town. As I watched him fly away, I had the strangest feeling that I hadn’t seen the last of him. But for now, I needed to figure out what to do. Obviously going back to the rainforest was out of the question. Not only was it thousands of miles away, but I was probably facing charges for calling upon the gods of nature to burn down my village. There was only one thing to do in my situation: go to Hollywood.
Since I was in New Mexico, that meant that if I headed west, eventually, I would stumble across Los Angeles. So, I headed west. I hitched a ride on the roof of a Lincoln Continental to Albuquerque, where I met the first human who wanted to be my friend as opposed to ripping off my face and wearing it as a mask: Bubba Jack, the Truck Driver. I met him just as he was tossed out of a local saloon for calling a fellow patron a “rampaging dickchoker of a fuckface,” which resulted in an epic barfight of the type only seen in movies.
I was pretty sure he thought I was a figment of his imagination, after all, if you were confronted by a talking monkey after being smacked in the head during a barfight, before which you had an unspecified amount of Kraken Spiced Rum, would you take it at face value? Probably not. However, once he sobered up and realized that not only was I still there, but still spoke fluent English, he started taking me seriously. He was taking a load of prophylactics to San Francisco (go figure) and since Los Angeles was sort of on his way, and because he was being asked by an adorable monkey, he agreed to take me to my destination.
We started up his big rig and headed west across the desert, swapping our life stories as we went. Most of Bubba’s life had been spent on the road, first as a roadie for Ozzy Osbourne, then as a hobo when Ozzy fired him for being “a bloody sod,” and now as a trucker. Bubba was quite surprised to hear of the laboratory and of the evil that was Crocodile Dundee, he explained that Dundee was the star of a popular movie made a few years before in which he terrorized New Yorkers with a big knife. That seemed to fit with the Dundee I knew.
We stopped for the night on the Arizona border. I had an uneasy feeling as I went to sleep that night, but didn’t find out why until the next morning. As we traveled down the deserted highway, a convoy of trucks, jeeps, APCs, and other military badass type vehicles came over the horizon. They were all decorated with animal corpses stretched over the hoods. Croc Dundee had caught up to me. Bubba saw them too, and stepped on the gas. But the heavy truck was no match for the faster vehicles, who gained ground at an alarming rate. They were alongside us in no time. I asked him if he had any weapons on board. He produced a can of pepper spray.
They started pulling out very large guns and putting holes in the truck, which as you can imagine didn’t go over so well with us. I started throwing random things out the window, including poop. I was a creature of habit, after all. My barrage had no effect on the convoy, however, and it looked bleak. Then I got an idea. After making sure that Bubba was securely fastened to his seat, I suddenly jumped into his field of vision and disrupted the driver so that he lost control of the big rig, and with a tremendous crash, it tipped over, collecting all of the convoy vehicles in the process. Screeching metal, crying people, assorted crashing sounds, etc. I clung to the steering wheel for dear life, and finally, the truck stopped sliding. Bubba was dazed, but otherwise unharmed. The convoy wasn’t as lucky. Most of the cars had been totaled, people were unconscious and dead everywhere, and the entire scene was covered in packages of condoms.
Bubba and I escaped from the wreckage, and made for one of the vehicles that looked to be still working. The driver tried to shoot us, but was quickly dispatched by Monkey Fu. We were just about to get in when a voice behind us demanded that we hold it right there. We spun around to discover that Croc Dundee had made it out of the wreckage as well, and was holding a very big gun on us. Bubba distracted him by convincing him to take the safety off his weapon first, and I hit him in the eye with poop. Again. He was never going to learn. We sped off while Dundee writhed on the ground in pain. We made it into Phoenix by nightfall, and camped out in a cheap motel. The newspapers the next morning carried an “interesting” headline:
However, there was no mention of the Croc Convoy. He must have managed to clean up his part of the crash before the authorities arrived. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of him, but it would take awhile for him to rebuild his forces and come after me again, so for now, I was safe. We continued on in our stolen truck, stripped of the insignia of the Croc Convoy. After a few days, we had made it into Southern California. However, we didn’t quite make it into Los Angeles. Somehow, we went North, around the city, and it was awhile before we realized our mistake. We were traveling through the city of Santa Barbara when the truck broke down. It sustained more damage in the crash than we realized, and the engine finally quit on us.
It was at that point that Bubba and I decided to split up. Well, not really decided, Bubba called a taxi and the driver refused to transport me without a cage. I thought that was bullshit, and told Bubba to go on without me. I watched as my second companion in a week disappeared from view and pondered what to do now. I turned to look where I was, and noticed the fancy looking property behind me. A fancy gate with a sign on it was right in front of me. The sign said Neverland Ranch.
PART FOUR
The King and I
I was probably the only sentient creature in America who didn’t know who Michael Jackson was in the year 1988, so Neverland Ranch held no meaning for me as I stared at the wrought iron gates. But, I saw a house up there, and figured that, with my winning personality, I could woo whatever eccentric rich dude lived up there and be set for awhile.
So, using my tree climbing ability, I scaled the fence and made my way up the drive. It took longer than I expected, since I had to walk (turns out monkeys are not very good at the whole “walking” thing.) I finally arrived at the door, and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, and still no answer. I then realized that no one could hear me because I had me some tiny hands. So, I went with the more brazen tactic of throwing a rock through a window.
“What the Hell?” I heard from inside. Uh oh. I had done it now. This was probably the one guy from California that was pro-firearm, and he was going to come out shooting. Then the door opened. My first opinion about Michael Jackson was that he was gayer than Freddie Mercury (this was the ‘80s, after all.) MJ was wearing a purple robe with his long hair put up in a ponytail. He was carrying a coffee cup and smelled like he had just come out of a bubble bath (he had.) He looked around for a person, but didn’t see anyone since I’m about two feet tall. “Yo, Mr. Bubbles. Down here.”
He looked down at me. If he was surprised to see a talking monkey, he didn’t show it. “Why did you throw a rock through my window?” “I have an instinctual fear of windows. Yours looked threatening.” (See? Humongous sarcastic asshole.) “Okay, better question. What are you doing on my property?” I decided to stop bullshitting. “Truthfully? My car broke down outside the gate, it just got towed, and my traveling companion abandoned me to go to Hollywood. I’ve just been chased across three states by a mad Australian that wants to dismember me after being kidnapped from my home in the rainforest, and I’m having a bad hair day. I need a place to stay.”
Well, he took me in, and we became friends. I found out Michael was a very famous pop star, but didn’t really care, because I knew who he was in private: a really strange but relatively nice guy. I became his right hand monkey and confidant. I was also behind many of the things that Michael did. For example, I was the one to convince him to get a Petting Zoo on Neverland Ranch. When he had his third child, I tried to instruct him in how monkeys hold their young, since he was inexperienced. It……didn’t go well.
I watched Michael slip deeper and deeper into despair and misery during our twenty years together. At times, he thought I was his only friend. The slanderous allegations made against him really took a toll on him, and I was sure I knew where they were coming from. Croc Dundee couldn’t get at me, but he could get to me through Michael, and that’s just what he did. Then one day disaster struck. It all started when I went to get outfitted for a pirate costume for Michael’s latest party.
I came home, and discovered the best friend I would ever have dead. The doctors all said it was an accidental overdose, but I discovered a note that I didn’t show to the police:
G’Day Mate! As you can see, I have ended your faggy friend here. If you had just been a good little monkey and been dissected all those years ago, this wouldn’t have happened. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAAHHHAHAAAH (It went on like that for half a page) HA! Now, if you don’t want me to start killing off other people you like, like this guy’s children, you’ll face me in a duel to the death, mate. You can bring any weapon you like, except guns because those are for girls, and we battle at that spot in the desert where we last met. You know the one. Your friendly neighborhood asshole, Crocodile Dundee.
I was filled with rage and a thirst for VENGEANCE. So, after calling 911, I prepared myself for battle. I dressed in my pirate costume, started sticking knives in every pocket, found a miniature chainsaw, brushed up on my Monkey Fu, and ate an entire box of Raisin Bran so I’d have plenty of fiber for the battle ahead. Also, because I thought it was cool, I brought a voodoo staff. Then I set off in Michael’s helicopter for Arizona.
I arrived at the site of my last battle with Dundee. No one had ever bothered to do anything with the crashed tractor trailer, and the rusting wreck remained on the side of the lonely road. I waited for about an hour before I saw one of those damn trucks he likes so much cresting the hill. It took him 10 minutes to arrive at the battleground. He had one of his trademark evil grins on his face as he got out of the car. “So, you came. Very noble of you. Stupid, but noble.” “Dundee, I’m going to kill you right in the goddamn face. You fucked with the wrong Monkey!” Dundee drew that knife/short sword, while I pulled out a pair of knives. And the battle began.
Metal clashed with metal as I flipped around Like Yoda in Attack of the Clones, utilizing my Monkey Fu to tail smack Dundee in the face at every opportunity. The duel was heated. One car drove by very slowly to look at the fight, then drove off very fast when a stray knife went flying through the air and almost punctured one of his tires. I was slowly losing the battle, I realized when I started losing my many weapons to blows of his swordknife. I was down to my chainsaw, which proved to be very effective until it ran out of gas. Then it was just a bludgeoning tool.
Then, a climactic moment. With a fluid motion, Dundee knocked my chainsaw aside and then chopped down, cutting off my tail! My precious tail! He motherfucking cut it off! NOOOO! I fell to the ground, screaming in pain and in sorrow because I just lost a limb to this bastard. Dundee chuckled as he stood over me, then raised his weapon to strike a mortal blow. It looked like the end for me. Then, a sparkle of hope. The voodoo staff I had brought along for shits and giggles was laying right next to me. I quickly grabbed it, and raised it as if to block his strike. Imagine my surprise when the jewel on the end lit up and burned that fucker with a laser shot to the face!
Dundee writhed in pain and began to act strangely, his face going all wonky. Then, he split into two Dundees, one with an evil looking face, and the other with a not evil looking face. The evil Dundee spoke with the voice of Satan: “Ah! You have separated me from my host! You will pay for this, monkey! A curse of fire be upon……..” I didn’t let him finish his sermon before I hit him in the eye with a very fiberlicious piece of poo. Satan/Dundee screamed in terror as it impacted his eye, then exploded, sending Dundee chunks everywhere. As the dust settled, I looked around and noticed the nice looking Dundee was still there. “Who the Hell are you?” I asked him. “I’m Paul Hogan. I’ve spent the last 30 years being possessed by the demon known as Crocodile Dundee. All because I wanted to be famous in someplace other than Australia. I was such a fool. I’m sorry for everything, mate. I really am.” I almost didn’t forgive him.
I almost attacked again.
Then I decided enough blood had been shed today (seriously, it was all over the place.) “I forgive you. Now go back to Australia and never be seen again. Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles was seriously the worst movie ever.” He nodded and got back in the truck, and drove off. I too got back in my helicopter and flew back to Los Angeles.
After the funeral for Michael, I disappeared, not wanting to live in an empty house with so many bad memories. I took to the road, where I still am today. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life on the road, but, if you should happen to see a monkey in a pirate costume without a tail, stop and have a chat for awhile, so I can steal your wallet-I mean, tell you of my tale (pun) in person. I have truly lived an amazing life, and will have more adventures in the years to come. My name, you ask? I’ve been called many names. Sexy Beast, Rotten Bastard, Chuck. But you can call me……..Michael Jackson’s monkey.
Oh, one more thing. Remember when I said I thought I would see Steve the Harpy Eagle again? Turns out I did. I crashed into him with my helicopter on the way back to Los Angeles, before he slid up into the propellers.
Whoops.
THE END.
PART ONE
Monkey Origins: Amazonia…
I have led an interesting life, far more interesting than most people. I’ve done many things, some I’m proud of, others, not so much. This is not the life I envisioned I would be leading, but I wouldn’t change a thing. They call me Michael Jackson’s monkey, though you’ve probably never called me that because prior to a few seconds ago, you didn’t know I existed. I bet you’re probably wondering why they call me MJ’s monkey, and I’ll answer it, partly. They call me a monkey because I actually am a monkey, which just blew your mind because monkeys can’t write memoirs, right? Well, I’m writing this, so you doubters can go sit on a flag pole.
Literally? Okay, that’s a little creepy, guy.
Photo of the author.
By the time I was 5 years old and fully grown, I realized this village I lived in kinda sucked. We had no running water for one thing, and there was an unhealthy obsession with our own fecal matter that stays with me even today. Hell, our main sport was the Poop Shoot, a crap flinging contest that measured one’s accuracy and quality of ammunition of our sacred weapon. When not worrying about poop, we worried about what we were going to eat to make poop. Berries and tree nuts were good fare, but once we started picking up lizards from off the ground and eating them, that’s when I realized everyone was really stupid. I came to recognize that I was the only self aware monkey in the village.
I started planning my escape from the village when I was 6. No one would miss me, they already thought me strange for not playing any Monkey Poop Games and for refusing to eat dung beetles, which had become the new fad. It seems so obvious now why a bug with poop right in its name would become popular with monkeys of that caliber.
It was worshiped as a god.
I made my way to the top of a nearby hilltop and surveyed the damage. My entire monkey village had burned, leaving a giant black scar on the rainforest. Monkeys were in the middle of the brand new clearing screaming things and flinging poop ash. So, with resounding finality, I mooned them, even though they couldn’t see me, and went into the jungle, never to return.
I had a fine time traveling through the rainforest, though every life form I met tried to kill me. I fought snakes, army ants, Venus fly traps, even a couple of trees that tried to strangle me with their vines. But my greatest foe proved to be the animal that had claimed the life of my useless father, and now wanted to make a meal out of a far more worthy adversary: the Harpy Eagle.
The bastard in the flesh. And in the feathers.
When the Eagle came back down to try to grab me, I flung my reptilian slingshot, striking that bitch right in the beak at high speed. The Eagle lost control, crashing into the ground with resounding force, coming to rest in a large pile of poop. Poop features prominently in my story, in case you hadn’t already figured that out. The snake had been killed on impact, it’s spine shattering with the force of my mighty forearms. The Eagle was still alive, and seriously pissed off. But, a crumpled wing meant it couldn’t fly, so it hopped over to me and tried to peck my eyeballs out. I was forced to use my monkey martial arts and we engaged in a kung fu battle on the forest floor. Shouts of “Hi Ya!” and “Squawk” permeated the air.
I finally defeated my opponent by picking him up bodily and giving him a John Cena FU right into the River, where he was then consumed by the piranhas that are freaking everywhere in that river.
Like this, but with monkeys, eagles, and real violence. And more poop.
PART TWO
In Captivity
Why the damn people that captured me had to bring me to America in the loudest, clunkiest, most decrepit airplane that was still capable of flight I will never figure out. The ride to my new home was miserable. My ass still hurt from the tranquilizer dart (seriously, did they have to hit me with an armor piercing dart or whatever the hell that was? It felt like they stabbed me with a rusty screwdriver.) and I was groggy from the shit that dart pumped into me. Plus, I was pretty sure the pilot learned his aircraft control from playing Microsoft Flight Simulator.
I really hope those are just midgets.
Oh piss off, Elmo.
The walls were spattered with blood, the scientists were all nuts, and I was a tad concerned for my welfare. I wasn’t sure what they were going to do to me, but for some reason I knew it was going to involve exposing my internal organs to the light of day. The crates were put into a holding room, also covered with blood for some reason. Then, a scientist walked in. He was wearing a large hat, a malevolent smile, and blood soaked leather pants. He was the man who would shortly become my mortal enemy: Crocodile Dundee.
Why so serious, mate?
I was just about as screwed as this guy was. But only just.
(Ha! I just used two Deliverance references in a row, and no one can stop me! AHAHAHAHA!)
He fell over, and I made my move, springing forth from the cage like a monkey getting out of a cage really fast. Two scientists came in, alerted by aforementioned squealing, and I quickly neutralized them with my Monkey Fu. They also conveniently left the door open. I made for the door, only to hear a squawk. The Harpy Eagle was the only other animal left in the holding room besides me that hadn’t been murdered, and was still trapped in his cage. I was extremely, extremely tempted to leave his ass there, but then I felt bad. Dumb conscience, I’m never going to get out of here with these annoying morals!
Quick! Where did that last sentence come from? The picture is a hint.
And this is a LittleKuriboh shout out. I’m referencing my favorite things like crazy today.
PART THREE
On the Lam.
We had escaped the laboratory, but I had no idea where we were. Arid looking desert stretched in all directions, with some mountains in the distance. I finally deduced we were in New Mexico. I wish I could say I figured it out by looking at a unique cactus, or some other method that makes me look smart, but actually, I just saw a sign.
Yes, I can read. If you hadn’t figured that out by now, there’s no help for your condition.
Steve, the Good Harpy Eagle.
After all, it worked out so well for Fozzie Bear.
Bubba didn’t fare well.
You can’t say no to this face.
That’s not a knife, that’s a bloody short sword.
The very definition of bringing a knife to a gun fight.
Awesome Image Sensor Overload: Image Replaced with Puppy.
However, there was no mention of the Croc Convoy. He must have managed to clean up his part of the crash before the authorities arrived. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of him, but it would take awhile for him to rebuild his forces and come after me again, so for now, I was safe. We continued on in our stolen truck, stripped of the insignia of the Croc Convoy. After a few days, we had made it into Southern California. However, we didn’t quite make it into Los Angeles. Somehow, we went North, around the city, and it was awhile before we realized our mistake. We were traveling through the city of Santa Barbara when the truck broke down. It sustained more damage in the crash than we realized, and the engine finally quit on us.
Bugger.
PART FOUR
The King and I
I was probably the only sentient creature in America who didn’t know who Michael Jackson was in the year 1988, so Neverland Ranch held no meaning for me as I stared at the wrought iron gates. But, I saw a house up there, and figured that, with my winning personality, I could woo whatever eccentric rich dude lived up there and be set for awhile.
If all else failed, I could fool him with a masterful disguise.
In all fairness, I meant to throw it AT the window. How was I supposed to know it would break? I lived in the rainforest, we didn’t HAVE glass.
I was kind of a jerk back then.
I forgot to mention Operation Broken Rubber.
I watched Michael slip deeper and deeper into despair and misery during our twenty years together. At times, he thought I was his only friend. The slanderous allegations made against him really took a toll on him, and I was sure I knew where they were coming from. Croc Dundee couldn’t get at me, but he could get to me through Michael, and that’s just what he did. Then one day disaster struck. It all started when I went to get outfitted for a pirate costume for Michael’s latest party.
The same costume I used to start a movie career, funnily enough.
G’Day Mate! As you can see, I have ended your faggy friend here. If you had just been a good little monkey and been dissected all those years ago, this wouldn’t have happened. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAAHHHAHAAAH (It went on like that for half a page) HA! Now, if you don’t want me to start killing off other people you like, like this guy’s children, you’ll face me in a duel to the death, mate. You can bring any weapon you like, except guns because those are for girls, and we battle at that spot in the desert where we last met. You know the one. Your friendly neighborhood asshole, Crocodile Dundee.
I was filled with rage and a thirst for VENGEANCE. So, after calling 911, I prepared myself for battle. I dressed in my pirate costume, started sticking knives in every pocket, found a miniature chainsaw, brushed up on my Monkey Fu, and ate an entire box of Raisin Bran so I’d have plenty of fiber for the battle ahead. Also, because I thought it was cool, I brought a voodoo staff. Then I set off in Michael’s helicopter for Arizona.
I was so pissed, I was playing Ride of the Valkyries and I would have brought napalm if I had found some.
This is my knife. There are many like it, but this one is mine…
Useless piece of biscuit eating flim flam chowder head darn tooting machinery.
TO THE FACE.
I almost attacked again.
Then I decided enough blood had been shed today (seriously, it was all over the place.) “I forgive you. Now go back to Australia and never be seen again. Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles was seriously the worst movie ever.” He nodded and got back in the truck, and drove off. I too got back in my helicopter and flew back to Los Angeles.
After the funeral for Michael, I disappeared, not wanting to live in an empty house with so many bad memories. I took to the road, where I still am today. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life on the road, but, if you should happen to see a monkey in a pirate costume without a tail, stop and have a chat for awhile, so I can steal your wallet-I mean, tell you of my tale (pun) in person. I have truly lived an amazing life, and will have more adventures in the years to come. My name, you ask? I’ve been called many names. Sexy Beast, Rotten Bastard, Chuck. But you can call me……..Michael Jackson’s monkey.
Oh, one more thing. Remember when I said I thought I would see Steve the Harpy Eagle again? Turns out I did. I crashed into him with my helicopter on the way back to Los Angeles, before he slid up into the propellers.
Whoops.
THE END.
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