Titles Previously Considered (and Rejected) for This Blog

OK so some of you (and by some, sadly, I mean none of you) have reached out to your humble Monkey narrator and asked what the name of this blog is all about.

Were this blog to have regular readers, and were they to ask questions of the author, those questions would likely include…”Are you truly a monkey? Are you truly grumpy? Why that name? Why now?”

Thus to satisfy this entirely self-fabricated curiosity, your Monkey thought this would be an appropriate time to dig back through his notebook and list some of the names he considered but ultimately rejected for this blog.

Primates:

• The Glummest Gorilla
• The Crabbiest Chimpanzee
• The Orneriest Orangutang
• The Moodiest Macaque
• The Crankiest Capuchin

Backyard Mammals

• The Most Miserable Mole
• The Scowling Squirrel
• The Constantly Complaining Chipmunk
• The Badger of Bad Feelings
• The Skunk of Being Down in a Funk

Birds

• The Robin of Rancor
• The Bluebird of Bad Intentions
• The Oriole of Original Sin
• The Unpleasant Pheasant
• The Jerky Turkey
• The Snickering Chicken

Single Celled Organisms

• The Angriest Amoeba
• The Increasingly Paranoid Paramecium
• The Self-Flagellating Flagellate
• The Sporadically Upset Sporozoan

Reflections on a 1999 Nissan Altima on the Occasion of our Parting Ways

You were a sleek black beauty when I picked you up from that slightly run down garage in Brockton that sunny August morning in 2005.

Sure, you had a little mileage on you, but it was far less than what the 1994 Chevy Corsica I was driving at the time had.

And you had an intact paint job, which was more than I could say for my dented and faded Corsica.

Our relationship was troubled at first. I had driven American cars for so long that I had grown accustomed to their low center of gravity, heavy steel frames and sturdy suspension.

When I opened you up to 60 or so on the highway for the first time, you seemed to shake and shimmer a little too much. Immediately I thought that I had been ripped off, that your suspension had been shot, that you had been in an unreported accident, that I would have to take my case all the way to the Supreme Court.

But cooler heads eventually prevailed. The car was fine.

For a few years, you were a gem of a car. Your tan interior stayed pretty clean, the car itself smelled pretty good, and we even got a Sirius Satellite radio working in there for a little while.

But time and age caught up with you after a while. First there was the battery that exploded right after I lost my job at the newspaper.

Then there was that unfortunate incident in the snow where I was the only one stupid enough to try driving into work, and the only one to forget to keep riding second gear in the slippery snow once I got close to the house, and the only one to smack into a nearby Chevy.

I ended up crushing the headlight housing on your front passenger side, but our lightweight fiberglass front end did no damage to the heavier Chevy.

Then there was the jackass who grabbed and twisted your antenna into a permanently bent shape one night, for no reason other than that fucking with people’s cars has to be expected in the city.

And the time when we tried to take you up to Maine one dark Friday night, only to have the front fiberglass frame pretty much fall off the car once we got on Route 93.

A couple of zipties got us back home to Somerville, but not much further.

And finally, there was the infamous water pump incident. The pump died on the way to work, sending you into instant overheat mode. Together we just got to the garage before your engine blew.

That day, the mechanics fixed you up for a ton of money, but on our way out of the garage (one of the muggiest days of all time) the pump fell right back off again and it was another mad scramble to get back to the garage with the needle pinned on “hot as fuck”.

I then had to run through a torrential summer downpour to catch the train back home.

But even though we had our ups and downs, you were a good, solid car.

You kept me safe on the roads. You were there to help me take my dog home for the first time, to help my bring three shrieking puppies from Medford to Walpole when the shit hit the fan at my apartment.

And most of all, you hung tough during the 110-degree day when the two dogs and I drove back from the Cape last summer.

A breakdown in that kind of searing heat with two dogs in tow would have been a challenge to say the least. The words “panic-inducing” and “full on freakout” also come to mind.

But I have a new Nissan now.

A 2010 Versa with the same black exterior. It drives like you and feels like you. It’s almost like you got a facelift and a mileage reduction.

But there’s no room in my life for two cars.

The tow truck came on Friday while I was at work to pick you up and send you on your way.

The next stop for you (sadly) is most likely the scrap heap. You need new brakes and your odometer doesn’t work and changing out your directional light is harder than most surgical procedures.

You are gone, but you are not forgotten.

More Facebook Posts That I’d Like to Make

From time to time, your Monkey is seized with the sudden impulse to post something on Facebook that may not be a wise choice for his personal and professional life. Sometimes these posts are uncomfortably personal, sometimes they contain opinions that the so-called “moral majority” might not agree with, and sometimes they are downright unseemly.

Therefore, in order to relieve his mind of the urge to share this information, your Monkey posts them here in the safety and anonymity of this widely unread blog.

The Grumpiest Monkey….

• Would gladly accept a crippling meth habit if it could get this work day to go by faster
• Is thinking about getting on the organ donor transplant list now (pre-need), so he’ll have a jump on the competition if any part of his body starts to go
• Is likely to scream “don’t you eyeball fuck me” at the next person who glances too long at him in the company garage
• Is going to rock down to Electric Avenue, and if all goes well, then take it higher
• Built this city on rock and roll, along with steel, concrete, copper piping, asphalt and a top-notch urban planning commission
• Doesn’t want to wait for our lives to be over
• Just bought new screenwriting software but sadly finds his mind bereft of good ideas
• Takes it personally when you change lanes without using your blinker
• With all apologize to laughter, is pretty sure that medicine is the best medicine
• Is wondering if anyone knows how long it takes for a balloon filled with heroin to pass through your system
• Is thinking it might have been smarter to tie a tighter balloon knot
• Is feeling incredibly warm and incredibly sleepy
• SSsssssssssskghnnhdhahlglsawhef

Possible Titles for My Memoirs

From time to time your humble monkey has considered turning his tried and true adventures into an autobiography or series of memoirs that would act as an inspiration to the youth of America.

His humble rise from jungle ape to chimpanzee copywriter is truly the kind of Horatio Alger story that book publishers are clamoring for these days.

Plus, his struggles with depression and adult onset awkward body syndrome will surely generate some good buzz on the talk show circuit. Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil are you listening?

Of course, your Monkey cannot begin to put pen to paper until he has settled on a suitable title for his adventures.

The following are a few of the book titles that are now under consideration.

• Mail Order Monkey
• Monkey by Mail
• From Chimpanzee to Chippendale Dancer: How One Monkey Defied the Odds and Subverted Traditional Male Sterotypes
• I’m Your Private Primate
• How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bananas

Other possible titles (more geared toward the self-help market)

• Life is a Known Depressant
• Things Couldn’t Get Any More Awkwarder
• Who Shit in My Sandwich?
• Each Day is Better Than the Next

Yet more titles (these one geared towards the narrow market of my neighborhood)

• Things That I’ve Stolen From Your Yard
• I’m Sorry Bob, But it’s Time the World Knows You’re Homosexual
• Cul-de-Sac Confessions– How One Suburban Monkey Seduced An Entire Neighborhood with Wit, Charm and Ether Rags

Memories of a Brown and White Spotted Dog on the First Year of our Acquaintance

It’s been a year since your humble Monkey was fortunate enough to adopt a very sweet brown and white spotted dog.

And OK, so the dog had some trouble with house training.

And OK, so the dog was pregnant with three puppies at the time.

Let’s not start judging.

It’s only been a year, but what a long strange trip it’s been.

Here are some random memories from year one.

• Working a whole shift at the animal shelter after she arrived and never getting a chance to take her out. But I did walk by her cage at the end of the night and put my hand up to the door so she could touch it with her nose.
• Sitting in the front seat of the car after getting out of the vet’s office, her placidly staring at me from the back seat while I freaked out about her unexpected pregnancy
• Bringing her home to my parent’s house for the first time, desperate for her to make a good first impression, and watching her peacefully curl up under the feet of my brother as he worked on his Halloween costume
• Coming home at “go time” to find all her blankets bunched up in the middle of her crate. Panicking beyond panic at the prospect of delivering puppies
• Carrying her down the back stairs fireman-style at 5 in the morning the night after she gave birth, while she shrieked in hormonal confusion at being separated from her newborns
• Sprinting up and down the street at full speed to burn off excess winter energy
• Taking long walks through the snow tunnels of Medford, glancing in the windows of warmly lit houses and wondering why it seemed like everyone had a home but us
• The morning she corralled two escaping Chihuahuas by instinctively using her body to block them. Like they were her own puppies
• The morning we were attacked by a cat and the way she ducked and moved to avoid getting scratched
• Breaking down on the way home from work when she was sick. Getting home hours later than I was supposed to, bursting in the door to find the crate seemingly shut and empty! Only upon further inspection did I find she snuck out the end door that I had left unlatched was sleeping on her bed in my room
• Sitting on the sunsplashed banks of the Mystic River watching the baby ducks in the water, then barking at a surprise turtle that was climbing along the shore
• The night (almost a year into our acquaintance) that she finally felt comfortable enough to rest her head in the crook of my arm

The Following Things Betrayed Me Today

• Genetics–Hey umm… RNA and DNA and chromosomes and Gregor Mendel and Charles Darwin—-thanks so much for this unholy mess that passes for my physical appearance. I appreciate this little genetic code that you’ve sussed out. No matter how much I work out I just get skinnier and smaller and paler and more feminized.
• My Computer–all I want to do is apply to one f–king job and the thing keeps freezing up on me. Sure, I have a newer computer, but the old one has the Microsoft Word program that I need to type out the cover letter. Going on hour number two of staring at that cocksucking hourglass already.
• Drivers in the Breakdown Lane– OK, I know that you’re technically allowed to use the breakdown lane during rush hour, but do you have to use it if all the other lanes are working just fine? Driving in it “just because you can” is stupid and shortsighted and  creates a crowded and dangerous driving situation. No one thinks you’re cool because you’re using the outlaw edge.
• Genetics--Again, what is with this body? How can one person be so skinny and weak and spotted and pale, and not be classified as some sort of endangered bird?
• Judas Iscariot– Just kidding, big guy. You’ve never done me wrong and you give the most wonderful kisses on the cheek.

Facebook Status Updates I’d Like to Make

Due to the rules of so-called “polite society,” your humble Monkey can’t always say what’s on his mind when it comes to updating his real-world Facebook status.

People might complain if they knew what really lurked in the dark recesses of his Monkey mind.

So rather than posting these updates on a social network for the world to see (and pass judgment on), your Monkey will instead use this humble forum to get these statuses off of his fuzzy monkey chest.

The Grumpiest Monkey….

• Would rather be drunk
• Is drunk
• Is pretending not to be drunk at work
• Thinks your breasts are looking first-class today
• Would like to dress the entire female population in yoga pants
• Must have angered the turd gods
• Thinks cannibalism is unfairly stigmatized
• Is craving some delicious monkey meatballs
• Wouldn’t mind some baboon baloney
• Would have a hard time saying no to a chimpanzee cupcake
• Stumbled across a pagan sacrifice in the park
• Participated in that pagan sacrifice
• Now owes a goat a serious apology

Grumpiest Monkey Fiction: The Orange Julius Caesar Assassination Plot (Part 1)

A juice stand in the middle of a suburban mall might seem like a funny place to plan an assassination, but goddamn if the place didn’t have smoothies to die for.

Plus, talking about the dirty business of planting pipe bombs and cutting brake lines over a couple of frosty orange sherbet blasts makes the whole thing seem more like a backyard game of tag than high stakes political intrigue.

But we both knew that Carl was serious. Deadly serious.

Carl leaned in close. There was a gleam in his eye and a smattering of sherbet on his lips. When he spoke, his breath was cool and tinged with citrus.

“Look,” he said. “There’s just no other way around it. The presidency is too important to leave to a vote. There’s just too much at stake.”

I took a long suck out of my straw and coughed when the shake hit the sweet spot at the back of my throat. Unable to speak, I waved at him to continue.

“I’d love to sit here and tell you that I trust the people,’” he hissed. “That they’ll see through Dave’s–uh…my opponent’s–campaign of bullshit and misinformation. But we can’t take that chance. Not after what happened four years ago. And not with what’s at stake at the national level.”

“So what do we do?” I finally croaked.

Carl took a sideways glance at the hapless adolescent boy manning the smoothie stand.

The boy was barely able to stand under the weight of his own teen awkwardness, let alone worry about what we were up to.

“We’ve got to get rid of Dave,” he said.

“But…murder?” I shrugged. “There’s got to be a better way. Blackmail? Sabotage? Can’t we plant some drugs in his car, or sign him up for a man-boy love association or something?”

Carl slammed his fist on the table, sending smooth ripples across the surface of my smoothie.

I glared at him.

Rubbing somebody out was one thing, but messing with another man’s frozen drink was going a step too far.

(To be continued…)

Grumpiest Monkey Fiction: The Grocery Store Checkout Line Conundrum

The snow was falling in droves now, and the lines at the supermarket continued to grow.

Gerald grunted impatiently, cradling his meager collection of groceries (one can wet dog food, one roll paper towels, one box of cereal).

He looked with increasing dismay at the size and complexity of the food orders in the grocery carts in front of him.

Each one had a bigger and more complex mix of groceries. Small items, large items, multi-packs, bags of fresh fruit and vegetables whose produce codes would have to be painstakingly entered into the register by hand. Was this going to be a small snowstorm or the apocalypse?

To make things worse, the girl at the register seemed to be moving like a turtle with a terminal morphine habit.

Michelangelo didn’t spend as much time on the Sistine Chapel as she did on every order.

Gerald rubbed his chin. He had shaved before he left for the store, but now he could feel the fuzz slowly creeping back into place on his face.

Had it been that long?

He felt a sharp stab of panic in his chest. For a moment, he became convinced that standing in this grocery line would constitute the entire second act of the two-part play that was his life. Everything up until this point — Birth-Childhood-School-College-Job — had been the first act.

Intermission had been spent winding his ways through the clusterfucked aisles of the Whole Foods trying to grab a roll of paper towels without getting swallowed up the teeming masses of snow-crazed ex-Hippies.

And now, in a bitter twist that was sure to upset the audience, Act 2 of the play would entirely take place in the world’s longest grocery checkout line.

Gerald had two choices. He could sit here and accept his fate and turn the play into a existential drama a la “Waiting for Godot.”

Or he could get a little crazy.

Beating the Heat

The sun scorched down today as your humble Monkey once again resumed pulling boxes out of his apartment and trying to get the move done. The sweat pooled down the front of his monkey chest, and covered his monkey brow.

“Hey,” the girl from the donut shop yelled up at him. “Where’s the puppy dog?”

Your Monkey could only smile and shrug.

“Too hot for her in the car today?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Wow. What a deft conversationalist your Monkey is. Words tremble beneath his powerful tongue.

A three-day holiday weekend is a good time to move from the perspective that there is not the usual amount of work-a-day traffic, but all that time off isn’t neccessarily a good thing.

Your erstwhile Monkey is climbing the walls at home already. The dogs are looking at him and expecting something, but what to do with dogs when it’s hot enough to beat the band out there? Dragging them through the streets doesn’t seem fair.

Sweating and working on the world’s longest and most pointless freelance copyediting project seems to be the order of the day.

While others will spend their fourth lazing by the pool, your Monkey will be locked in a darked room, wrestling with CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS who would make a mockery of English with their tripled adjectives “he saw a massive, huge and very big rock” and their wanton disregard for the past, present and future tenses.

Sigh.