red pills behind the sofa cushions (procatalepsis, 2)
That is definitely not my monkey — first, because my monkey wears a platinum hoop earring and Japanese man clogs, and would rather his parochial school teacher happen upon him in a utility closet tugging his monkey dork to a poster of Raven Symone than be caught in a Member’s Only jacket, listening to a-ha!; and second, he can’t even drive stick.
Although I’ll admit, the resemblance is uncanny.
— But then, he’s a fucking monkey, right? Without the personality tics and the idiosyncratic clothing, who’s going to be able to tell them apart?
Unless there’s a beer bong around, that is. Because I haven’t met another monkey yet who can mainline 4 Mickey’s Big Mouths and a pureed banana in a single funnel pass. And trust me: I’ve partied with a treeload of monkeys…