IF I HAD A MONKEY...

I would strive to better understand my monkey's unique emotional needs.

I would meditate daily on the necessity of self-actualization.

I would solder my monkey to an electric can opener and send him to Namibia.

I would register my monkey for Selective Service.

I would force my monkey to service Ernest Borgnine's needs.

at gunpoint.

I would paint my monkey.

with lead paint.

and blowtorches.

I would sandwich my monkey between creamy layers of marshmallow fluff.

I would buy my monkey a Cowboy Hat.

I would send my monkey to Lindsay in my stead.

if he tried anything, I would fuck his shit up with a toasteroven and a Belgian.

I would lace my monkey into an uninflated football and sell him to the NFL.

I would buy my monkey a lava lamp and see to his grandmother's daith.

DAITH!

I would philander with my monkey.

I would tamper with my monkey.

I would scoop out my monkey's brains and send them to Harrison Ford.

I would scoop out my monkey's brains and send them to Dom Deluise.

I would travel with my monkey.

I would take my monkey to Afghanistan, where the Taliban would blow him up.

I would publish my monkey.

with a machine gun.

in the face.

I would seduce my monkey.

ZAM ZAM ZAM/

ZAM ZAM ZAM/

I would Erica my monkey.

my monkey would be forced to assemble mail-order birdcages for fun and profit.

I would cover my monkey in wood glue and throw him off the Tower of Babel.

I would never understand my monkey.

my monkey would never understand me.

he would however understand that

HIS DEMISE IS IMMINENT.

I would auction off my monkey for fun, profit, and sexual release.

I would take my monkey on Spring Break.

my monkey would make a "Monkeys Gone Wild" video.

I would give my monkey beads if he showed me his monkey tits.

yucky... hairy monkey boobs.

I would shoot my big-tittied monkey in the face with a taser.

I would rustle up my monkey some grub.

my monkey would be lemon-scented.

because of all the lemons i would stuff up his ass.

my monkey would wash that man right out of his hair.

I would buy my monkey 750 business cards, then set his face on fire.

I would smack my monkey around with a strip of aluminum siding.

I would prepare some delicious applesauce for my monkey, and then I would skin his grandmother alive as he watched.

I would irrigate my monkey's wound, even if he did not yet have a wound.

I would shoot my monkey with a gigantic laser beam while he was having a mid-day snack.

I would buy my monkey a can of delicious Planter's Mixed Nuts, and then I would castrate him with a rusty spoon acquired at an antiques shop in Dekalb Junction, New York.

which nuts? Deez nutz, monkey. Deez nutz.

I would convict my monkey.

I would convince my monkey.

I would translate the entire text of the New Testament into Esperanto, and then I would drive over my monkey with a new tractor.

I would force my monkey to sell ink-jet refill kits on the street corner.

I would cover my monkey in marabou.

Marabou saunter across the plains of Africa.

No, Paul... Those would be gazelles.

I would film my monkey as he performed random acts of kindness, and then I would cave in his skull with an atlas.

I would celebrate my monkey's life in song and dance.

I would buy my monkey a one-way ticket to Abject Pain.

I would slip into a trance and smash my monkey with a ball-peen hammer.

I would dance the night away with my monkey, holding him close, smelling the delicious smell of sun-ripened raspberries and monkey musk.

I would amputate my monkey's face.

I would surgically-attach a bassett hound to my monkey.

I would laugh enthusiastically at my monkey/bassett-hound hybrid.

I would throw the fucker into the river.

DROWN MONKEY/BASSETT-HOUND DROWN!

I would gesso my monkey.

I would cover my monkey with Kraft paper.

I would embarass my monkey by having him stand in the tampon aisle of the grocery store until I counted to forty-thousand. Unbeknownst to my monkey, I would have actually gone next door to Domino's for a delicious slice of pepperoni with extra cheese.

I would place a small plastic forklift inside of my monkey's stomach.

I would send my monkey to Cybertron for more energon cubes.

I would bake biscuits for my monkey.

monkey biscuits.

made with genuine monkey.

(his grandmother.)

I would burn down my monkey's house if I found out that he was hiding books in there.

I would shove cigars up each of my monkey's nostrils and set his station wagon on fire.

I would never ever smoke reefer with my monkey.

I would punch my monkey in the belly and poke needles under his toenails.

I would shampoo my monkey.

I would condition my monkey.

I would ring a bell and make my monkey salivate, and then I would bust his nose.

fucking prick.

I would force my monkey to smoke Marlboro 100s until he wept like a little faggy monkey.

I would call my monkey "Cowboy Killer."

I would have my posse hang my monkey from a piece of rope tied around his neck until he died of suffocation.

I would plummet my monkey.

I would Torres my monkey.

I would send my monkey to Canada on the next Bacon Boat.

I would encase my monkey in concrete and display him at the Methodist Church.

I would cut off my monkey's ears and buy him some doughnuts.

I would Cut my monkey.

I would Copy my monkey.

I would Paste my monkey.

to the underside of a moving freight train.

I would travel the world with my monkey, bringing joy to hundreds of boys, girls, and the occasional hermaphroditic midget.

I would soar on the flying trapeze with my monkey.

I would Wallenda my monkey.

I would slather my monkey in cocoa butter.

I would grill my monkey.

I would vivisect my monkey for the Good of Science and All Mankind.

I would embalm my monkey.

I might even kill him first.

I would make my monkey into a keychain, and then promptly lose him on the ferry.

I would devise ways to make my monkey love me, and then when he had enough confidence in my capacity for love and ability to sustain a long-term relationship, I would buy him a leprechaun, send him to Paraguay, and stab his grandmother in the monkey face with a pitchfork stolen from the Ingalls farm.

I would buy my monkey some Tube Rose Scotch Snuff.

I would snuff out my monkey's will to live.

I would sell my monkey to the Mount Pleasant Hose Company.

my monkey and I would travel to wondrous locales such as Fancy Gap and Sugar Notch.

I would whip my monkey into shape.

I would whip my monkey into submission.

my monkey would get stood up.

in front of a firing squad.

I would build my monkey a spaceship and drown him in the Gulf of Mexico.

I would build my monkey's character.

I would play Legos with my monkey.

I would cut my monkey into segments using only the sheer power of my mind.

I would film my monkey on location in France, Nova Scotia, and Hank's Meat-Processing Facility on the corner of Jackson and Devane.

I would see to it that my monkey contracted only the finest of Foot and Mouth Diseases.

I would quarantine my monkey.

I would sequester my monkey.

I would routinely subject my monkey to Feats of Strength.

I would give my monkey a beautiful heirloom Meerschaum pipe, and then I would annihilate his homeland.

I would administer the GRE to my monkey with a sledge hammer and a pipe wrench.

I would wrassle my monkey each night before bed.

I would wrassle my monkey each morning upon waking.

I would inject absinthe into my monkey's nasal cavities.

I would tie my monkey to a balloon and send him to Atlanta.

my monkey would always have a smile on his face.

(it is amazing what taxidermists can do these days.)

I would duct tape several thousand cardboard toilet paper tubes to my monkey.

I would buy my monkey a corncob pipe.

I would smash my monkey's face with a lead pipe.

*THWACK!*

I would sell my monkey to Jean Valjean.

I would lasso my monkey.

I would hogtie my monkey.

I would dress my monkey in a delightful pleather pantsuit.

I would savagely denounce my monkey's regime.

I would throw a tantrum.

I would send my monkey an email or two.

I would buy my monkey water.

I would glaze my monkey in Gator Sauce.

I would produce a film about my monkey's addiction to the smack.

I would throw my monkey into a bottomless pit.

I would teach my monkey how to refinance his household.

I would triangulate my monkey's position, then drive over his grandmother with a giant traveling hotdog stand shaped like a weiner in a bun.

I would exhibit tireless perfectionism.

my monkey would not exhibit tireless perfectionism.

I'd make damned sure that fucking monkey would be tired and imperfect, especially with a tire iron sticking out of his cranium.

I would drive him to drink.

I would drive him to drink in Canada.

I would leave him in Canada without a visa, and he would be deported.

I would clothesline my monkey.

I would trampoline my monkey.

I would Anheiser-Busch my monkey.

I would acquire a crocodile upon which my monkey could ride.

I would scan my monkey into a computer and delete him.

I would build my monkey a bridge.

I would dip my monkey in olive oil and sesame seeds.

I would force my monkey to gamble.

I would sell bits and pieces of my monkey to scientists.

I would periodically touch my monkey tenderly with an aluminum baseball bat.

I would periodically smash my monkey with an aluminum baseball bat.

I would file my monkey's taxes for him.

I would command control of the clouds in the sky.

I would feed my monkey some linoleum pudding.

I would transport my monkey to the holodeck.

I would exile my monkey to Florida.

I would drown my monkey in his own vile sweat, painstakingly collected over the course of an entire summer.

there would be much rejoicing in Compton.

I would strap my monkey down and subject him to Robert Goulet's verbal history of the Battle of Antietam.

I would strap my monkey down and pay Robert Goulet to violate him with a set of encyclopedias and a wretched little echidna named Duck.

I would photograph my monkey inside of a giant inflatable porpoise.

I would put a twinkle in my monkey's eye.

I would put the dull blade of an old rusty scythe in my monkey's eye.

I would teach my monkey how to warble like the morning birds.

I would read the entire text of "To Kill a Mockingbird" to my monkey before bedtime, and then after I tucked him in, I would perform the final act of "To Kill a Monkey."

I would scream and shout and smack my own ass like a bad bad bad little boyo.

OWWWW! ROCK AND ROLL!

I would blame Beerman.

I would try to understand why my monkey had no limbs.

I would remember that I had sold them to the limbless man down the street as a poor substitute for his own long-gone appendages.

I would dope up my monkey.

there would be REEFER MADNESS!!!

I would print my monkey's image on to a large piece of cardboard using the finest in laser printers, and then I would use my monkey for target practice.

I would never be able to have my monkey appraised on The Antiques Roadshow, because I would see to it that he wouldn't live long enough to become an antique.

I would hand-turn my monkey with a lathe.

I would eat some delicious monkey parfait.

I would exile my monkey in a tiny prison cell located within the Dry Tortugas.

I would sell my monkey to the Shakers.

I would sell my monkey to the Amish.

I would sell my monkey to the crazy man down the road who burns down trailer parks.

I would gift-wrap my monkey and then give him to the Grim Reaper.

I would encourage my monkey to study archaeology, and then I would saute his grandmother's liver with some chopped peppers and onions for dinner.

I would give my monkey to Michael Crawford.

I would feed my monkey monkey.

I would sometimes take my monkey to the diner for grits, sausage, and a slow and painful death at the murderous hands of Flo.

I would wash my monkey with Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner, and then I would slam his delicious-smelling hide in a car door.

I would scream niceties at my monkey.

I would turn into a Martian.

ZAM ZAM ZAM/

ZAM ZAM ZAM/

I would reject my monkey like a donated kidney.

I would paint my monkey taupe.

I would twilight my monkey.

my monkey would be treated with the utmost respect by the charlatans and dregs of society to whom I would lease him for a reasonable sum.

I would take a chance take a chance take a chance on me.

I would talk to my doctor about Lipitor.

it would all be very subtle.

I would be cantankerous and afflicted with catarrh.

I would only be able to take the joke so far before repetition set in and I was forced to smash my monkey in the face with a croquet mallet.

I would continue my journey toward Enlightenment.

I would dance like a Kansas City faggot.

I would hold my monkey's hand as we crossed the street.

my monkey would always beat me at billiards, and then I would beat my monkey with billiards.

it would quickly become a tasty and juicy fried monkey sandwich.

I would dance on the future location of my monkey's grave, then I would dig a hole, kill my monkey, throw him into the hole, fill it back up with dirt, and then dance on my monkey's grave.

"Rest? Rest is for PUSSIES!" --Dan Fleming, driving past a rest stop somewhere in Pennsylvania at approximately 5 a.m.

I would throttle my monkey.

my monkey would prepare a large steaming bowl of corn chowder for me each morning upon my waking.

I would stamp a giant pink triangle on to my monkey's forehead.

I would ask my monkey to count the goats on the side of the mountain.

I would ask my monkey to count the sheep on the side of the mountain.

there would be fourteen goats on the side of the mountain.

there would be one wayward sheep on the side of the mountain.

if my monkey had not correctly counted the number of goats on the side of the mountain, there would be swift and brutal punishment.

punishment would consist of beatings with fists and sticks.

if my monkey had correctly counted the number of goats on the side of the mountain, I would kiss him squarely on the mouth with lots of tongue and no time to breathe.

I would give my monkey Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

I would give my monkey catarrh.

I would give my monkey a little miniature monkey of his own to beat with fists and sticks.

wait a minute... monkeys can't make a proper fist! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

oh well. he could beat his miniature monkey with a stick.

no, wait a minute... without a thumb, how could my monkey ever firmly grip his stick?

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!

my monkey would be the God of The Trapezoids.

he would be better than Beerman.

my monkey would chase the pedophiles out of the park with a Volksvagen Vanagon.

my monkey would kick wood chips out of the playground so that the children would have to fall on cold hard concrete when they slipped off the Jungle Gym.

my monkey would be a Loyalist, and i would use a cudgel to break him.

my monkey would chew his cud.

my monkey would be worthless.

my monkey would know the difference between sharp and mild cheddar cheese.

my monkey would be aged to perfection down in the cellar.

I would see to it that my monkey would never be afflicted with Jungle Muffler.

my monkey would have seven-wheel drive and tits.

I would contract my monkey.

my monkey would battle Zeus on Mount Olympus with nothing but an old can of crabmeat and a sheet of gypsum board.

Addie would notorize my monkey, just like she notorized me. Heh heh.

my monkey would enjoy ham sandwiches and interstellar warfare.

my monkey would steal yearbooks, phonographs, and visors.

I would force my monkey to predict the daily weather for Pakistan each morning at our breakfast. If he correctly forecast the weather, I would give him some Harrod's Butter Biscuits. If he incorrectly forecast the weather, I would give him some Slow and Agonizing Death by Ball-Peen Hammer.

my monkey would pay an exorbitant amount of money to spend the weekend in the Alumni House, and he would suddenly turn into a flying piece of carrot pie named Hellfire.

my monkey would be Japanese Lard.

my monkey would jam with Toad the Wet Sprocket, and then I'd beat him senseless for being a fag.

my monkey would be Belligerent, and I would be Forced to Gouge His Eyes Out.

I would force my monkey to be Pious, Humble, and Scantily-Clad.

I would stand on the streetcorner with my monkey and be an Organ Grinder.

heh heh... Organ Grinder.

I think that's what they call the Chi Omega girls... Organ Grinders.

my monkey would face Cleveland and pray fourteen times each day.

I would trade my monkey in for three pounds of sliced pastrami and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Tori Amos.

I would Erica my monkey... AGAIN.

my monkey would be clothed in the finest garb made of muslin and broken glass.

I would encourage my monkey to take up a new hobby, like basket-weaving, piano lessons, or dying a slow, painful death at the hands of the former cast of Who's the Boss?

Who's the Boss now, monkey? WHO'S THE FUCKING BOSS NOW?

Tony Danza, monkey. Tony Danza.

I would tickle my monkey with a backhoe and perhaps some plastic explosives.

I would name my monkey "Josephine."

I would follow my monkey around with a large lead pipe, the entire time shouting at the top of my lungs: "The FUCK you say? The FUCK YOU SAY?"

I would see to it that each and every one of my monkey's days were [dyingdays].

I would tie my monkey to Dom Deluise and then push him into the river.

my monkey would not be able to get tickets to the current Broadway production of Mel Brooks' classic comedy, "The Producers."

I would give my monkey three free tickets to my new way-off-Broadway production of "How to Kill my Monkey in a Very Slow, Painful and Messy Way."

I would sell my monkey for magic beans.

hell, I'd probably sell my monkey for regular beans.

my monkey would simper and snicker.

my monkey would live in constant fear of rejection, which I would give to him in great heaping servings.

I would link to my monkey's webpage.

I would link to my monkey with a steel chain through his nose.

I would link my monkey to a freight train bound for Alabam'.

I would give my monkey just one beer to take the edge off each Sunday morning at approximately 11:00AM.

I would send my monkey into the woods with a basket of goodies for Grandmama.

my monkey and Grandmama would be eaten by the wolf, but I would take the noble hunters out to lunch at the Cracker Barrel, so they would not be around to rescue my monkey or Grandmama from the vile belly of the wolf.

I would startle my monkey.

I would build a fence around my monkey.

I would build a fence with my monkey.

I would make my monkey sleep on the floor.

I would bite my monkey on the left forearm and leave a mouth-shaped bruise that lasts to this very day.

I would not sleep under the covers, but underneath a grassy blanket that would provide its inhabitants of evil biting insect creatures ample opportunity to feast upon drunk Paul.

um... monkey. right.

I would go to my monkey's graduation ceremony at 1PM Saturday, 12 May 2001 at the Oklahoma Memorial Stadium.

*sigh*

well, I would.

i mean.

fuck.

anyways.

I would chain my monkey to the world's largest ball of dead monkeys.

I would try to entice my monkey to reveal the location of the secret monkey mating grounds so that I might exact an utter xenocide against his people by dancing seductively for him in my little bellydancer outfit.

I would build my monkey a tiny spaceship and then I'd sell him for spare parts.

my monkey would huff turps.

heh heh... "huff turps."

I would teach my monkey how to ZAM ZAM ZAM/

ZAM ZAM ZAM/

ZAM ZAM ZAM/

yeah, that's right, biatch.

I would miss my monkey... No, wait. That's Lindsay.

I would live in denial! HOORAY FOR ME!

I would send my monkey to Goddard for one week a semester.

I would invite my monkey to my sister's wedding AND THEN RUIN IT.

I would kiss my monkey on the mouth and punch him in those monkey nads as hard as I could when he tried to slip me the monkey tongue.

I don't swing that way, Monkey. I don't dig on Fallhammer.

I would have my monkey pull out Erica's wisdom teeth.

I would have my monkey pull out all of Erica's teeth.

I would force-feed my monkey eight gallons of "Ass in a Bucket" Hot Sauce from the Casa Del Sol.

I would force-feed Erica eight gallons of "Ass in a Bucket" Hot Sauce from the Casa Del Sol.

I would throw comets at my monkey.

my monkey would never ever marry my daughter.

my monkey would never ever marry my son.

I would set fire to my monkey's tractor.

I would give my monkey my PAYNE GOLDEN DENTAL ART hat.

I would encapsulate my monkey.

my monkey would granulate.

my monkey would harbor ill-feelings for the people of Honduras.

I would rename Honduras "Michelle."

I would send my monkey to Michelle.

I would Jekyll my monkey.

I would Hyde my monkey.

I would hide my monkey six feet under the ground in a lead coffin.

I would make my monkey visit the elephants at the zoo.

my monkey would exhibit an unnatural interest in alpaca farming.

I would tie rocks to my monkey.

I would tie rock and roll to my monkey.

my monkey would chase Paul Stanley around the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, shouting at the top of his monkey lungs, "OWWW! ROCK AND ROLL!!"

I would ask my monkey for the time.

it would be Time for Kink.

my monkey would stink.

my monkey would take an active role in protesting his own demise by organizing a hunger strike and then I would sell his grandmother to the Mormons.

I would never, ever, EVER twiddle my monkey's clitoris.

my monkey would urge the people of Romania to revoke the terms of the Kyoto Accord.

my monkey would adhere to fuel efficiency guidelines, and then I would exile him to the ice world of Hoth.

I would confuse my monkey by becoming Palestinian.

I would triangulate my monkey's position and force him to drink soy milk.

my monkey would be a dancing girl.

my monkey would abhor toasted bread.

my monkey would abhor Abigail.

my monkey would sometimes try to steal Christmas.

my monkey would want to ride the kids like the good bikes do.

my monkey would attempt to start a webpage of poetry written by retards.

my monkey would fight for social injustice.

I would sell my monkey for a bucket of lard and three pounds of old veal.

I would sell my monkey to Spencer Tracy for a bucket of lard and three pounds of old veal.

I would sponge my monkey.

my monkey would attempt to conquer Outer Mongolia.

I would over-charge my monkey for porridge and quail.

I would force my monkey upon the Oregon Trail.

my monkey would have babies.

lots of babies.

my monkey would be a baby machine.

I would sell baby monkeys to the owners of snakes and perhaps badgers.

otters would use tuxedos and pocket-watches.

MY MONKEY'S LUV IS 4U!!!

I would pay cold cash money to watch Baby Jesus wrassle my monkey in a barrel.

I would pay cold cash money to watch my monkey wrassle a badger in a barrel.

I would pay cold cash money for a delicious Baby Jesus sandwich.

I would see if my monkey could walk on water.

if he could not, I would drownded my monkey.

I would shoot subatomic particles through my monkey at speeds faster than light.

I would stitch an oxygen tank to my monkey.

I would savagely hug my monkey with horrible recklessness and impunity.

I would create a famous aeroplane for my monkey.

my monkey would be critical for the war effort.

I would see to it that my monkey's soul hurt.

I would slather my monkey in bacon grease and toss him to the West Virginians.

I would work the girls hard.

there would be smoke coming out of my monkey.

I would devise a simple and legal way to erase my monkey's debt.

I would devise a simple and legal way to enlarge my monkey's penis with natural herbal supplements.

I would Erica my monkey.

yeah, I know. So?

I would pull off my monkey's wings.

my monkey would not be able to find his shorts.

my monkey would command the Salvation Army from his secret bunker in the center of Cheyenne Mountain.

I would NORAD my monkey.

children would quake in fear.

Panama City would drip with fluids.

my monkey would pilot a wooden dinghy.

it would be clear that WASPs were not wanted on my monkey's base.

I would not go to the crash scene, but the fire would be intense.

I would watch the barracks fire and drink a beer.

my monkey would sing in a whiskey tenor.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

I would see to it that each night at 3:33AM EST, I would place my testicles on my monkey's forehead.

would you like to see Paul's testicles?

I would enter my monkey in a film festival.

I would chop his liver.

I would attempt to launch my monkey into Sheboygan.

I would choke on a toothpick, and my monkey would snicker.

I would recover, and chop off my monkey.

I would appoint my monkey as Surgeon General.

I would perform surgery on my monkey with a frozen haddock fin.

I would sell my monkey to Johnny Cochran.

I would have my monkey help O.J. Simpson find the real killer on the golf course.

my monkey would be a footsoldier in the War on Drugs.

my monkey would be useful, mobile, and patriotic.

I would anticipate my monkey.

my monkey would be Hungry for Kink.

I would fend off my monkey.

my monkey would have an allegedly-high cost.

my monkey would have tried harder, but because of peer pressure, he only had low expectations for success.

WHEE! WHEE 4 MONKEY!!!

I would make my monkey notorious.

I would expose my monkey to The Supposition of Dylmar.

my monkey would know what Dylmar means.

I would be ashamed of my monkey's monkey musk.

I would attempt to win over my monkey's heart.

I would attempt to run over my monkey's heart.

I would savagely attack my monkey with a trellis.

I would stare at my monkey until he cried bloody murder.

"Bloody murder!"

I would buy my monkey a monkey mattress.

my monkey would still sleep on the floor in a puddle of his own urine because I would take his new mattress and donate it to the homeless people under the bridge.

I would sock my monkey in the monkey mouth.

I would shove socks into my monkey's monkey mouth.

I would fucking love my monkey.

I would fucking hate my monkey.

I would hate-fuck my monkey.

I would hate to fuck my monkey.

I would hate to hate-fuck my monkey.

I would wear leather.

monkey leather.

I would buy my monkey a delicious can of cream of mushroom soup.

I would chastise my monkey for not having thumbs.

my monkey would have a hard time opening that can of soup, I tell you.

I would buy my monkey a Bowflew.

I would Epil-stop my monkey.

my hairless monkey would resemble many Chi Omega girls.

not really...

he'd have less hair.

I would take the bus to work.

I would take the bus to my monkey.

I would use champagne bottles to smash my monkey's family.

Tommy Kane would jump off his house and into a shrubbery.

I would let my monkey use my cordless phone up until the point that I kill him in the belly for using my cordless phone.

I would Erica my monkey again.

and again.

and again.

oh goodness.

I would always see to it that my monkey had a plentiful supply of tongue depressers, pipe cleaners, and Elmer's Glue.

I would shove my monkey into a metal lunchbox.

my monkey would fear various extinct species because of the knowledge that he himself would soon be joining them.

I would name my monkey "Monkey Torres."

I would part my monkey's hair.

I would Arvo Part my monkey's hair.

I would banish my monkey from the Big Brother household.

I would name my monkey "Bunky."

If my monkey were a secret agent, he would use the following line at appropriate occasions of introduction: "The name's Monkey.. Bunky Monkey."

there is nothing quite so gay as a monkey named Bunky.

I would teach my monkey that there is nothing wrong with being gay, and then I would commit acts of savage beastiality on him.

I would see to Beerman's death, and then I would see to my monkey's death, and then life would be perfect and complete.

I would register my monkey for the draft.

I would make my monkey sleep outside.

I would throw windowpanes and chandeliers and triumphs and biscuits at my monkey.

I would smoke the dope with my monkey.

I would buy my monkey an expensive gilded frame, and then I would see to it that he was framed for the murder of the Lindbergh baby.

I would buy my monkey a leather office chair, but if he ever tried to sit in it, I would throw veal parmagiana at my monkey until he choked to death on that delicious breaded young cow meat, cheese, and tomato sauce.

my monkey would suffer from happenstance and beguilement.

my monkey would prefer arial 14.

Colton would become monkey capital of Northern New York.

I would cover my monkey in Mrs. Dash and sell him to the cast and crew of Perfect Strangers.

I would Balki my monkey.

my monkey would develop a healthy fear of all things that are fuzzy, green, or scented like haddock.

I would block my monkey.

I would black my monkey.

I would derive variations of preludes, countenances, and corollaries from my monkey.

I would rosin my monkey.

I would resin my monkey.

I would raisin my monkey.

I would resonate my monkey.

I would hold my monkey's hand and then drown him in a bucket of chum.

I would trade places with my monkey for a good fifteen minutes or so, and then I would punish my monkey for being so damned hand-some.

my monkey would be a hands-on kind of monkey.

in fact, my hands would almost always be securely fastened around his quivering, dying neck.

I would house-warm my monkey.

I would buy my monkey a colander.

I would try to love my monkey at least a little bit more, but I would probably give up, drive to the supermarket, purchase three metric tonnes of olive oil and lard, drive to the bridge, do thirty pushups, stand up and sing for a moment, kick my monkey square in the nuts and see to it that his monkey grandmother would win the monkey lottery, drive to Cleveland, and then by crushed by a giant hamburger that fell from the sky each and every time that I sneezed.

I would ask my monkey if he were sober enough to drive me to Hell, for that is where I deserve to be.

I would give my monkey a 3-liter bottle of Heineken, three tickets to Kansas City, and a gift subscription to Reader's Digest.

I would digest my monkey.

I would Lindsay my monkey.

even though it would be sloppy seconds.

I would throttle my monkey from soup to nuts.

I would invest in my monkey's well-being. Give blood. Give life.

the lifeboat would not have enough room for my monkey.

astronauts would clap their hands and dance around in circles betwixt the violet Venusian Trees of Life.

my monkey would be constrictive.

I would enjoy wearing women's undergarments.

my monkey would be but a shadow of the monkey he used to be.

there would be no jealousy involved. Never. Never ever.

my monkey would tire of innovation and the dust of yesterdays.

sometimes my monkey would be Portuguese.

I would Sleater my monkey.

I would Kinney my monkey.

my monkey would have his misshapen monkey non-thumb buried in the Christmas pie.

my monkey would-- Nah. Too easy.

my monkey would Tommy Kane all the pretty girls, and even some of the mediocre and hideously fat ones.

my mokney would spell his species wrong.

my monkey would do a body good.

MY body.

mmm.. monkey steaks.

I would list my monkey in the Yellow Pages.

I would list my monkey in the Page Wages.

I would zamboni my monkey.

I would establish a buffer zone around my monkey to ensure the safety of the townsfolk and the adherence to the Prime Directive.

my monkey would have the ability to change color each time that there was a gubernatorial election.

I would have the ability to spill my monkey's blood on the pavement. Silly bloodmonkey!

I would have my monkey help Lindsay study for her ConLaw final.

Connecticut Law is the best!

I would share heartwarming stories of yesteryear with my monkey, and perhaps some cocaine.

my love would be the size of these tumors inside us.

my monkey would be no laughing matter, except for when he slips on banana peels and falls on his fat monkey ass.

my monkey would receive error messages each time he tried to connect.

I would buy my monkey a cell phone and lop off his ears.

I would try my monkey's patience, and then I would try his brains spread on little gingerbread Congressmen.

I would be the Cause.

I would erect a firewall around my monkey's sensitive information, and then I would trap his family inside and kill them with smoke and flames.

I would try to see the humor in jokes about tragic burning death, even when there is a precipitous dearth of humor in jokes about tragic burning death these days.

we could spend the night.

my monkey would kick emo ass, yo.

I would celebrate the birth of my monkey's first-born child monkey by eating the baby with Kurds and whey.

I would dispute Creationism by forcing my monkey to evolve into Beerman.

I would buy a laptop for my monkey and then have large large women sit on him.

I would write a letter to my monkey on feminine napkins.

my monkey would never join a sorority.

if it did, I would refuse to speak to it.

I would take its name off my IM list.

MONKEY FUNTIME INVASION!

I would Mitch Pileggi my monkey.

there would be myrrh.

my monkey would play the flute.

my monkey would not play the skin flute.

well, at least MY skin flute.

my monkey would fall victim to a hobgoblin.

I would throw my monkey into Meg's cake pit.

the barbecue would be kick-ass.

I would windsurf and dive with my monkey on a Funship Cruise.

my monkey would be a funboy.

my monkey would be all-inclusive.

my monkey would carry a gun because of psycho internet stalkers.

my monkey would cherish the grad school experience.

my monkey would come with a free lube, oil, and filter.

I would splatter my monkey's guts all over the road and sometimes I would read poetry about trains.

I would refer to my monkey in the royal plural, and then kill them.

sometimes I would blush.

my monkey would take a seat.

to the church.

my monkey would be My Friend In Christ.

I would ask my monkey to get the hell out of Christ and leave him alone.

my monkey would be a SUPERSTAR!

what's the buzz?

tell me what's a-happenin'!

my monkey would call Jim "The Hammer" Shapiro.

I would place my monkey on trial.

I would place my monkey on error.

I would pronounce my monkey illegal.

I would ask my monkey questions.

I would spread my monkey on the asphalt with lettuce and tomahhhto.

my monkey would try.

I would resist.

I would create rubbings of my monkey.

No! Not like THAT!

Okay. Like that.

my monkey would undergo Pon Farr.

I would assail my monkey with hunks of flesh.

stucco would no longer stick.

"revile" would take on a new meaning.

I would arrange a monkey marriage.

sometimes I would shampoo my monkey with staples and Zud.

whenever my monkey began to hope that he was no longer my monkey, I would tickle his feet, hold his paws, and buy him a larger-than-life reproduction of the entire cast of Battlestar Galactica, made out of velvet, triumph, and cheese.

my monkey would be broadband.

he would also be broad-banned.

if I ever caught him with my broad, I'd cut him in the belly with a blade.

WE DID THE 69!

I would call Beerman, Colonel, and Kelly.

Yvonne would get married.

no, really.

I would give her canned ham, monkey, and gout.

Len.

my monkey would enroll.

my monkey would Enron.

my monkey would Ron Howard.

I would call my monkey a meathead, then I would consume all of the meat from his head in a zesty carnivore chowder.

we would barbecue corn.

I would grow wings and fly to the special place where the monkey elders gather to mate and later die.

my monkey would be on Star Trek, but he would always be the ill-fated away party guy who dies.

I would develop feelings for my monkey, armwrestle his family, try, and then win the doorprize.

I would tie bricks to my monkey's feet and throw him out the window.

my monkey would be a medical illustrator.

my monkey would wear chain-letter armor.

his Vulcan name would be T-Pau.

his gay name would be Chance Bombay.

his gay name would be Jason Lansing Beerman.

his gay porn name would be Jason Lansing Beerman.

my monkey would have a rad cooter.

I would choose the challenge.

I would Dare to Dream!

I would Save Private Ryan.

Jeri Ryan.

my monkey would generate perpetual income.

I would rent my monkey to hobos and tramps as a spongemonkey.

I would guzzle some of that hooch and find a way to make kudzu stew.

my window would fall out.

it would be as it was in the dawn of our days.

I would not be impressed with a $3500 Mini-DV camera.

my monkey would want to take high-resolution images of my girlfriend, but I'd fuck him up.

I would Susan my monkey.

about damned time!

I would slather my monkey in Ragu.

I would toast my monkey with champagne.

I would toast my monkey with a toaster.

I would slice my monkey up into little pieces, stir-fry him, and serve him to the original Broadway cast of Stephen Sondheim's "Passion."

I would never allow my monkey's hands to get dirty.

to achieve that end, I would have to amputate my monkey's face, so he could never find any dirt to put on his hands.

I would molest my monkey with surgical steel, aviation fuel, and breadmaker's weaponry.

I would dangle my monkey over the edge of the world and allow the Horrible Beasts From Below to tickle his toes.

I would punctuate my monkey.

my monkey would lather.

my monkey would develop a taste for spices, and I would deny his access to spices.

the way that men relate to vestiges of yesterday would forever be ensconced.

I would allow my monkey three minutes of long-distance airtime each month, but if he touched the telephone with any part of his body, I would savage an invertebrate and ask Judge Judy to rule in my favor.

I would closed-caption my monkey.

I would close the page on the book of my monkey's life.

the law wouldn't be able to take away my pain, so it would compensate me with monkey.

I mean money.

I would make my monkey walk in traffic and then have Traffic kick his ass.

my monkey would hit the pavement and then Pavement would hit him.

I would never hotlink my monkey.

I might, however, disperse his ashes in the winds above Mount Pinatubo.

I would buy my monkey a musical instrument, but I would lock it in the closet and neither let him know what it was nor ever see it at all.

I would supercharge my monkey.

I would caress him in the manner of men who caress animals.

I would use my monkey to kill the person who came up with the stork at the health club March of Dimes folic acid commercial.

and then I'd kill him again.

my monkey would have triumphs of cheddar and trying times of trout.

I would fire my fucking lawyer.

I would upbraid my monkey and make him live forever with the cast of Frontier House in a hermetically-sealed tugboat.

I would struggle with life and the way my monkey was.

I would ass-fuck my monkey in the face.

I would face-fuck my monkey in the ass.

I would make my monkey a casserole made from Time and The Gerber Baby.

Dr. Who would travel through time and space to try to steal my monkey, and I would let him, because the Daleks would hate my monkey more than me, which may at first seem impossible, but I assure you it is.

I would provide the best coverage possible, because we can't all be Size 6.

I once had a Size 6.

I would lose thirty pounds in two months.

I would lose one-hundred-fourteen pounds in two months.

I would cry a lot and then get pills!

PILLS!

I would still hate my monkey, even though the pills have taken away my ability to feel intense emotion.

sometimes I would lay awake at night and think about things, especially things dealing with providing my monkey a swift and horrible death at the hands of his supposed loved ones.

I would put a silencer on my monkey.

in the form of a voicebox removal.

I would feed my monkey a mixture of corn pone, corned beef hash, and cigars.

I would be a really fun person to be around.

my monkey would be absolutely beautiful.

I would send my monkey away to a scary hippie college in Vermont.

I would raise predatory birds and they would practice their predation on my monkey.

I wouldn't be funny anymore.

I would plagiarize myself in an attempt to regain my funny.

I would cover my monkey in bread crumbs and give him to R. Crumb.

drowning in a puddle of vagrant vomit would seem pleasant compared to What I Would Have In Store For My Monkey.

my monkey would be a Democrat.

my monkey would be a Republican.

my monkey would be indecisive and therefore useless in the greater scheme of life.

I would tell my monkey that we were going on a glorious trip to see the sights of tomorrow at the place where time and space converge.

I would go but wouldn't take my monkey.

I would find a way to travel through time to meet and kill my monkey's parents with genuine artifacts such as trilobite fossils, arrowheads, and Dick Clark's bronzed baby booties.

there would be trouble, trouble right here in River City.

I would give my monkey to The Lost Ninja Tribe of Ghana.

they would lose my monkey.

I would barter with my monkey's life for all the things I've ever wanted, including a beautiful and comfortable Old Navy Polar Fleece pullover jacket.

I would bury my monkey in the ground up to his neck, cause an earthquake, and destroy the city of Rome with a gigantic collection of toast crumbs and used curling irons.

I would wear Nikes and Just Do It to my monkey.

I would purchase a delicious rump roast and not let my monkey eat any of it because I am greedy, selfish, and an underemployed handi-capable quadraplegic with gout and a penchant for turpentine enemas.

I would force my monkey to respond to each and every email I get about lost Nigerian riches and secret bank accounts.

I would make my monkey do a shot every time I got an email telling me how to enlarge my penis or breasts.

I would Goddard my monkey.

my monkey would be evasive when confronted on issues of Love, because he has been wounded so many times before.

my monkey would ruin lives.

my monkey would drive women thousands of miles away.

I would scrape my monkey with a snow plow and encourage him to volunteer with Habitat for Humanity.

my monkey would help children across the road, into the path of oncoming traffic.

I would advise my monkey to stop masturbating in public.

I would trample my monkey with a herd of wandering large mammals, preferably bison, reindeer, or Rosie O'Donnell.

I would kiss my monkey's familiar face each morning upon waking, punch him in the tits and crush a can of kidney beans into his eye sockets.

I would forbid my monkey from engaging in either end of the oral sex act, but I'd encourage him to be the Lucky Pierre in the Manhandler Marathon.

I would start rumors about my monkey's affairs with Celine Dion and Pam Tillis.

I would stitch a frying pan into my monkey's stomach lining.

I would savor every minute of plucking my monkey's eyebrows, which of course extend to his genital region.

I would send my monkey to The Netherlands.

I would send my monkey to My Netherlands.

I would send a flotilla of fine angry pirates to attack my monkey's belly with their Sabres of Good Times.

my monkey would order the Number Nine.

my monkey would show Hallie the Midget Dog just who was the Alpha Male.

my monkey would catch criminals.

I would Hogbody my monkey.

I would smoke cigarettes with my monkey next to the canal until an alligator came out of the water, ate my monkey, and joined me for a delicious Marlboro 100.

I would Minogue my monkey.

I would lock my monkey in a small storage closet with Junior Noboa and a bucket of fried clam strips.

my monkey would discover Wendy's Triangle of the Goddess.

I would subject my monkey to the agonies of concealed evidence.

I would pluck my monkey's eyebrows, and since my monkey would be covered in hair, I would in essence be plucking every hair from my monkey's body.

I would have my monkey go outside and find the little bastard who is shouting EAR EAR EAR EAR EAR and throttle him with a pipe wrench.

my monkey would sing at Tailchaser's karaoke night, and then I'd take him out to the Steak and Shake and kill him dead.

my monkey would want to bang the Crazy Yellow Shirt girl, but the Crazy Yellow Shirt girl would want to bang Colonel instead.

I would give my monkey the delightful gift of insomnia!

British, dyslexic, and stupid people would give my monkey the delightful gift of insomina!

I would make my monkey stay awake all night knitting me a life-sized replica of the Death Star made out of root fibers, fiber-optic line, optic nerves, common household thread, dental floss, vilification, and the shorn pubic hair of three-thousand Vietnamese virgins.

I would deforest my monkey.

I would Deforest Kelley my monkey.

I would beat the shit out of my monkey with a tire iron while the ghost of Deforest Kelley and the guy who invented jelly beans took turns savagely violating my monkey's family with a giant bulldozer custom-made in the shape of a rabbit with three ears.

I would bake my monkey a delicious ham.

I would present my monkey with the Nobel Violence Prize.

I would mug my monkey for being such a fucking peaceful pantywaist.

I would see to it that my monkey was charged with causing every zeppelin crash in the history of the human race, and the alien race that will soon rise out of the ruins of Tinochtitlan to take over the world with mind rays and butter guns.

I would toss my monkey's salad.

into the river.

and he would starve.

I would glue my monkey's eyes open with podiatrist's nail glue and force him to sit through an Italian cannibal movie marathon.

if he fell asleep with his eyes open during the marathon, I would shoot his grandmother monkey in the belly with an industrial-sized ball bearing rifle.

I would sodomize my monkey.

I would gomorrahrize my monkey.

I would hippopotamize my monkey.

I would force my monkey to drink as many turpentine and orphan milkshakes as he could.

then I'd make him drink just one more!

I would Gabby my monkey.

I would dress my monkey up like a little monkey cowboy and run him over with a Ford F-350 diesel dualie.

I would make my monkey avoid mass-transit systems, then have him arrested for not riding to work in a carpool.

I would get my monkey a job as the sweat bucket monkey for the Syracuse Orangemen, and then I'd have the real Orangemen who live at the center of the planet rise up from the San Andreas faultline and chase my monkey around in solar-powered hovercrafts.

I would get an email like this:

From: "Lisa Witkowski"

To:

Sent: Tuesday, April 29, 2003 4:16 AM

Subject: AMLA

Mr. Hughs. Dear, dear Mr. Hughs.

Are you aware that some of the entries on your list are suggestive? What happens when a child stumbles across your site? A recovering monkey-lover? I understand that your site is intended only to provide an outlet for violent feelings toward monkeys, but please be wary of what people ask you to publish.

Lisa

President/Founder of Anti Monkey Love Association

http://www.antimonkeylove.org/



I wouldn't respond to the email because my last name is HUGHES.

my last name wouldn't be HUGHS.

I'd send some traffic toward the AMLA because I'm a humanitarian and a philanthropist.

I wouldn't pick on Leesa too damned much.

it is "Leesa," isn't it, Leesa?

my monkey would yawn and move on.

my monkey would plan GabbyMonkey Rooftop Jamboree 2003, and I'd throw him off the roof for putting the moves on Gabby.

I'd Gabby my monkey.

again and again and again.

and again.

oh yeah, sweet lordy yeah.

FUCK YEAH.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

I'd attack my monkey with a virulent strain of the Macaroni Plague.

I'd give my monkey a special gift from my heart: cold, black coal.

I'd assign my monkey a seat in a classroom, but I wouldn't tell him where to go to school.

if he didn't go to school, I'd steal his grandmother monkey and send her to Dom Deluise in little deep-fried pieces over the month of Ramadan.

I'd brush my monkey's teeth with a wire brush and collect his dental blood in a chalice made of the finest aluminum that money and sleeping with the aluminum vendor could buy.

I'd force my monkey to resign his post as Chief of Interstellar Affairs at Starfleet and then gut him in public for being such a Babylon 5 dweeb.

I'd make a movie about my monkey's legs.

For the movie to be a realistic success, I'd have to amputate my monkey's legs.

I'd use the amputated legs as cushioning in the pilot's seat of my solar-powered giant bulldozer.

I'd pass out with my monkey on Jonathan's couch, and then all hell would break loose when my ex-monkey, who has magically transformed into a drunken psycho hosebeast, walked in and found us there, fully-clothed, passed the fuck out, not doing anything other than sleeping, most likely snoring loudly.

because, you know, people who've passed out with their clothes on are very likely to have sex whilst in their respective comas.

my monkey would correct me on my plural usage and tell me that the Latins would have written "comae."

I would correct my monkey on his plural usage and remove one of everything of which he had two, including his arms, testicles, and lobes of his brain.

I would bake my monkey thirty delicious loaves of bread.

I would scream at my monkey until the cows came home, and then when they did, I'd invite them to take turns punching him in the belly, at least until he puked blood.

I would send my monkey on a grand tour of the Islands of Pain.

I would BIZARRO my monkey.

BIZARRO!

BIZARRO!

BIZARRO!

I made an egg for you! BAWK BAWK!

I would force my monkey to drink antifreeze, and if he ever started to like it, I'd make him stop.

I would ban the smoking of my monkey in all public places in New York.

I would encourage the smoking of my monkey in all private places in New York.

smoked monkey meat is delicious as an appetizer when wrapped in bacon, marinated in Shiraz, and thrown out the window into the path of an oncoming mobile magnetic resonance imaging tractor trailer.

Yes, they really have those.

One just drove by my apartment.

I live near two hospitals and a fire station!

no number of urgent-care facilities within reasonable walking distance would be enough to save my monkey from the horrible things that I'd do to him each and every day of his three-day life.

I would lance my monkey.

I would Lance Henriksen my monkey.

You know that scene in "Aliens" where Sigourney Weaver fights with the alien queen while she's dressed in that big yellow robot construction equipment suit?

I would totally do that to my monkey.

I would make my monkey go around by Doney's.

I would give my monkey a gift of silverware, salads, and trumpets.

I would maul my monkey.

I would Darth Maul my monkey.

I would cut my monkey in half and throw him down a long vertical shaft.

my monkey would never have a long vertical shaft.

my monkey would lose his hair, his fertility and his life after I exposed him to radiation.

I would slather my monkey in hot melted tar and use him to cover my rooftop.

I would sit on the roof with Gabby.

my monkey wouldn't be invited.

if he interrupted our roofsitting, I'd cave in his face with a shovel.

Dodi Fayed.

I would attempt to convince my monkey that humans evolved from an ancient race of alien lizards, not monkeys.

I would baptize my monkey.

I'd hire a British guy to baptise my monkey.

in blood.

British blood.

my monkey would be one of the great goddesses of the ancient world.

I would name my monkey "Diana."

I would bury my monkey underneath Paris, and then I'd burn down Paris.

my monkey would have six hours, six minutes, and fifty-nine seconds to live.

I would incriminate my monkey.

I would allow my monkey to run into the street when the annual bulldozer parade goes by.

it would be a lose/lose situation.

I would equip my monkey with outriggers.

I would allow my personal security force to protect me from my monkey with certain deadly force.

I would utilize my vast knowledge of alchemy to concoct a poison from the metals of the land before time with which I would subject my monkey to need-based mind control and a marathon of manipulation involving the perineum and the perietal lobe.

I would convince my monkey to hunt down and ruthlessly kill those responsible for the omnipresent and ridiculous interview between Angie Martinez and Fat Joe that HBO Zone plays all day long between feature films and original HBO television programs.

if my monkey looked like Fat Joe, I'd be really pissed off.

I'd probably stab him in his fat fucking face.

Angie Martinez is ugly, too.

my monkey would attempt to appeal to the largest minority in America, Hispanic-Americans, by hiring three or four new cast members for NYPD Blue that are all Hispanic.

I'd break my monkey's nose with a punch from my powerful scrotum.

I'd melt candle wax on my monkey and send his family to Sam's Club to enjoy the benefits of membership.

I would construct a giant caribou-shaped hot air balloon with which I would chase my monkey through the mountains until he gave up and conceded that The Ropers was a much-more-entertaining program than Three's A Crowd.

my monkey would be an ethnomusicologist specializing in bluegrass and the humble songs of the mountain people.

my money would be pretty when he slept.

I'd stab him in his fucking sleeping face with a pick-axe made of hatred.

my monkey would star in a film with Winona Ryder called "Monkey, Interrupted."

Then he'd steal clothing.

I would attack my monkey's clones.

my monkey would dance with children and be arrested for dancing with children.

I'd Gabby my monkey.

Boy, would I EVER Gabby my monkey.

She's hot, you know.

And she smells nice.

And she can sing.

I'd send my monkey to steal her back from Italy.

I'd convince an entire species of birds to continually watch my monkey and prevent him from ever playing Bingo.

I'd cover my monkey in wax, shove a wick up his ass, and set that mofo ON FIRE.

my monkey would love strawberry jam.

I'd make sure that my monkey never had access to strawberry jam.

my monkey would dislike ham.

I'd prepare ham for every meal, and if he refused said ham, I'd call the Loch Ness Monster and have him drop by for an evening of ham, cards, and "Beat The Fuck Out Of My Monkey."

I'd play "Eating is Fun, Eating is Serious" as performed by Chris "Corky the 'Life Goes On' Retard" Burke at my monkey's wake.

I'd play Chris "Corky the 'Life Goes On' Retard" Burke at my monkey's wake.

I'd book us both tickets for the Montel Williams show, then we'd eat bowls of delicious corn chowder while immigrants trimmed our toenails.

JD Express Haulers would haul my monkey's ass away.

Express.

my monkey would tour with Nick Cave under the stage name "Stagger Lee."

I'd tour with Stuart Staples under the stage name "Nick Cave."

I'd kill my monkey, go to one of John Edwards' "Crossing Over" shows, and if John Edwards made contact with my dead monkey, I'd tell him to go fuck himself with one of Satan's pitchforks.

I'd form a secret club with ten other monkeys, but my monkey couldn't be a member of the club, and if he ever complained about his lack of membership, I'd use mental powers to spin the Earth out of solar orbit into the deepest and darkest reaches of Outer Space.

When we got there, I'd punch my monkey in the balls and cut his grandmother monkey in three.

god damn, Betty Page had a big hairy box.

just like my monkey.

Larry Hooper, the long-dead guy from the Lawrence Welk show who had the freakishly-deep voice, would hate my monkey just as much as I would.

maybe even more.

Fuck yeah, Larry Hooper. Fuck yeah.

I wish you were still alive.

:(

anyways, I'd cram my monkey into a mailbox and hit it with a snowplow.

I'd buy my monkey a communications satellite, but I'd never let him communicate.

I would often find my monkey hiding from me at the corner store in the aisle where they keep tampons and maxi pads.

Did you know that original scent Degree anti-perspirant smells just like the tampon aisle of the grocery store?

How gross is THAT?

if my monkey were a girl monkey, I'd infibulate her.

I'd spend thirty years of my life attempting to find a way to make my monkey better.

I'd give up after realizing that my monkey would never get better than it was, and I'd probably stab it in the chest with an endiron, back over its pet dromedary camel with a large backhoe, and Diana Krall would fall out of the sky, shouting the lyrics to "La Vie en Rose" while feverishly masturbating with her broken parachute lines.

a boy's gotta dream!

I'd iPod my monkey.

I'd use an industrial staple gun to prepare my monkey for the possibility of biological warfare.

Bing, Bing, Bing!

I'd invent a new instrument for my monkey to play in the newly-formed jazz band in my basement, assembled entirely from captive members of Hezbollah, dromedary camels, and poolboys.

I'd Goddard my monkey, but then I'd realize that there are some things even monkeys shouldn't be exposed to.

I'd fuck my monkey with the gigantic corpse of Wesley Willis, dressed up for the occasion in the Oscar-Meyer Weinermobile.

I'd write a theme song for my monkey.

the lyrics would go a little something like this:

I HATE YOU MONKEY.

I HATE YOU MONKEY.

YOU FUCKING MONKEY.

I HATE YOU MONKEY.

I FUCK YO DADDY.

I KILL YO MOMMY.

I HATE YOU MONKEY.

I FUCK YOU MONKEY.

or maybe instead of writing my monkey a theme song, I'd sit down to enjoy a delicious club sandwich and a tall, cold glass of raspberry iced tea, and then I'd use my mental powers to throw the planets out of allignment, rob banks, and make sure that my monkey had a horrible credit report.

I'd teach my monkey the difference between "there, their, and they're" and "its and it's," because Jesus Fucking Christmas, it's not rocket science, you genetic mishaps.

I'd conduct illegal search and seizures of my monkey's person.

I'd instruct my monkey to steal license plates off of each vehicle in the Bennigan's parking lot and place them in a stack so high and mighty that if I climbed to the top, I'd be able to see back into the past to a point where I was happy, didn't have a monkey, was getting consistently laid, and Democrats weren't so persnippety.

my monkey would experience Culture Shock.

I'd force my monkey to experience Culture Shock my making him watch Cats while I tasered his loins.

I'd steal every other one of my monkey's vertebrae in an attempt to construct a friend for him made out of his own bones.

if my monkey were a girl, I'd wish that he'd look like that hot blonde detective on NYPD Blue.

no, not the gay secretary.

even though he's kinda cute.

Fuck that "Queer Eye" shit. If I wanted to look like a gay guy, I'd go suck someone off in a public bathhouse.

I'd teach my monkey to knit me some mittens.

three mittens each day for the rest of the history of ever.

I'd have to ask my monkey some tough questions about his wife.

my eating habits would change, mostly because I'd eat fifteen ounces of my monkey's flesh at each meal, but I'd keep him alive forever using the magic that the people from the Caves of Tomorrow taught me.

the secret ingredient in my meatloaf recipe? monkey.

I'd have a monkey.

I'd have a monkey.

I'd have a monkey. For real this time!

if my monkey ever complained about the background colors of this page, I'd call him Silly Sally Suckadick and microwave his monkey balls until he turned Amish.

I'd sell my monkey to a witch for three pounds of gooseflesh.

I'd get my monkey addicted to heroin, switch his addiction to methadone, then switch his addiction to Krispy Kreme Donuts.

I'd punch that bandwagon-riding donut motherfucker in the soul.

those donuts aren't that good.

they're just fucking DONUTS.

come on, now.

anyways, I'd lick every inch of my monkey's body until he became so grossed out that started to sweat hot rum toddies.

I'd take his Nintendo.

I swear to Jesus Christ, I'd take his Nintendo.

The Lonely Bear would kick his bitch monkey ass all over town, and that town would be Syracuse, NY.

I'd have to buy more bandwidth to keep this site up, you voracious greedfuckers!

and then I'd take a month off from updating the site because you voracious greedfuckers succeeded in using up all my bandwidth and I'm too poor to buy more.

FUNFUNFUN!

I'd start a revolution, and it would start with killing one single monkey.

I'd go Goddard on my monkey's ass, and by that, I mean I'd buttfuck him while spouting Post-Modern Rhetoric.

if my monkey ever asked me a rhetorical question, I'd punch him in the mouth and tell him that that's my god-damned answer, okay?

I'd spam my monkey with salacious and sagacious advertisements.

if my monkey decided to pronounce "advertisements" in the British way, ad-VER-tizz-mints, I'd kill him, plain and simple.

my monkey would miss Pam something fierce, but working with Peter would fill him up in ways he'd never imagined.

The Thing With One Eye would come on to my monkey.

The Thing With One Eye would come into my monkey.

I'd be forced to change my life for the better, like I was after I watched my sister's cat sitting in the sink for no apparent reason other than to watch the drain, get its paws wet, and scare the hell out of my mother when she was in the bathroom doing her business and suddenly a cat looked up at her from within the sink, which is situated directly across the room from the toilet.

I'd jumpstart this motherfucker, motherfucker!

I'd be concerned with my monkey's low-density lipoprotein levels, so I'd eat more ham until I barfed.

my monkey would attempt to learn how to drive tractors down interstate highways.

I would attempt to learn how to drive tractors up my monkey's interstate shitpipe.

my monkey would enjoy the occasional overdose.

vitamins would make no difference.

foreplay would never be an option. Ever.

my monkey would get engaged, and I'd stab his partner, Chase Longshaw, in the gullet with weapons made from love.

if my monkey enjoyed fish dinners, I'd make damned sure he never saw another fish dinner again.

I'd buy my monkey some Extra Cool Green Apple chewing gum, and once the taste disappeared, I'd make him dead by drowning him in cider.

my monkey would trot around on horses with Wilford Brimley, hunting down and lynching the diabetes of the Old West.

I'd commandeer a hydrogen-powered motorcar, steal a warehouse full of spaghetti, and try to convince my monkey that the only way he'd ever achieve Enlightenment would be to sit under the bridge until the bridge ogres allowed him into their elite knitting circle.

I'd fucking murder Billy Fuccillo, Tom Park, and everyone who's ever been affiliated with selling cars or shouting "HUUUUGE!"

Xantrex-3 would make my monkey fatter.

I'd roll the roly-poly little bastard into a bucket of steaming-hot soy milk.

You know those cool lamps that have green glass shades? I'd buy one of those.

if my monkey touched my lamp, I'd use my magic wand to make his navel disappear.

he'd get AIDS.

I wouldn't. I'm awesome.

on the Fourth of July, I'd convince my monkey that it was Christmas. If he asked where his gifts were, I'd stomp his skull into a pulpy mess on the ground and tell him that Christmas is canceled because he doesn't believe in Jesus.

I'd drive a giant zamboni through my monkey's former elementary school, leaving a thin layer of new ice over all the nuns.