The Monkey knew this would happen. They just couldn’t take him anywhere without someone spilling precious bodily fluids all over something. Of course the Monkey couldn’t tell his fellow test tube friends out loud but they could tell by the indignant grimace upon the Monkey’s weary brow, he knew.
No one in the club dared speak it however, especially “Staple-Face”. He remembered what happened last time. After all he wasn’t always “Staple-Face”. Still, the sweat beaded from his forehead as if it was simply killing him not to say something. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a steak knife and enjoy it’s tough, juicy centre with A-1 steak sauce, chopped parsley, and a slice of orange.
“Well…”, The Monkey seemed to say had he possessed the vocal capabilities to speak. His stapler ready in hand, he teased by clicking the stapler up and down.
“Staple Face” couldn’t take it anymore. He had to say something. Even if it was incredibly stupid, he just didn’t care. Someone had to say something. Anything! To everyone’s horror he grabbed the glass of milk and wolfed down its’ goopy contents.
“Chocolatey Dairy Goodness…” was all he could muster. He was dead. He knew before he spoke, that those three words would be his last. Had he chosen them more wisely, his fate may not have been so swift and horrible.
Alas it was time to face the music. The Monkey looked dumbfounded by “Staple-Face’s” stupidity. The whole room went silent again. Had Chocolate Ninja not started losing consciousness from losing all the chocolate syrup to his head, he may have tried to intervene. Instead the Monkey laughed. This broke the tension just nicely. Smiles all around.
Another Saturday night on the town. “Mothers lock up your daughters” they thought but then couldn’t understand why. Had the daughters done something to justify such harsh Incarceration? Had plans unknowingly developed between them and their daughters that should have their mothers at such unease? It was probably best to stay out of it. The last thing they needed was more trouble. They had their fill of that for one night.
“Pull over here”, the Monkey would have said if he could speak, luckily they stopped anyway. The Monkey tapped Chocolate Ninja on the shoulder. Chocolate Ninja knew what he wanted. Unanimously, the entire cab shook their heads and uttered what The Monkey had so blatantly longed for,
“Staples”.
Who the hell is Christopher W. Jack anyway? Clearly a man with a lot of time on his hands. We're talking seriously inordinate amounts of time.
