Sightings

Ahh it's good to be a monkey.

Monkey Fun Fact of the Day

#301. Monkeys are at their best when they are 37 years old.

How to Greet a Monkey

I'd like to discuss a very important current affairs issue that has been troubling me for quite sometime. It is a cause that is very dear to my heart because it effects me personally. This issue of course is the uncontrollable epidemic of shouldishakeaphobia (or "the fear of improperly greeting another"). People the world over are destroying first impressions, ruining friendships, going on dates that are D.O.A. all because they can't decide between a full hug, a bro hug, or a chest bump, and end up performing a combination of the three. These situations can be traumatic and life threatening. But as someone who has suffered with this ailment all her life, allow me to take this time to say friends, there is hope. There may never be a definite cure for shouldishakeaphobia but if we all can try to understand this disease, we can learn to cope with it and live our lives without the constant red-faced shame of having gone in for a hug when the other was going for a hand shake and then backed off to handshake while the other stumbled into an unwanted hug. We can beat this! And now that I am a world traveled culturally adept Monkey, I find myself humbly assuming the position of Expert in this particular field. Stay with me while I outline the most popular forms of greetings and attempt to describe the proper circumstances in which they are used.

Let us begin with the simplest and most foolproof greet: The Handshake.

The Handshake is used best when meeting someone for the first time, but will also suffice in the following circumstances: the person is an old acquaintance with whom you are not that close; the person has some personal hygiene issues of which you have been previously made aware; they are your date and she looks great from a distance but you're afraid up close she'll be a dog; the person is your parole officer; you're sealing a deal; you're doing a drug deal; you're 12 years old, having a sleepover party with a friend, you've both just cut your palms with a kitchen knife and are totally promising to be blood brothers and best friends for life (which may not be long because now you've got the hiv); you really hate the other person and you've just had your hand down your pants; the person is your father whom you're meeting for the first time in your life and he looks a bit creepy; the person is your touchy feely uncle who usually grabs your ass when you hug; the person is your gynecologist (...although you know where his/her hands have been all day so avoid contact if possible, same goes for your touchy uncle, now that I think of it). The Handshake is also useful in a situation you are completely unsure of because it can transition quite painlessly into some of the other possible greets, such as...

The Hug. Hugs are nice but lets be honest you better really fucking like the person in order to commit to this much direct contact. If used in conjunction with The Handshake, the Hug should be performed with the arm that is not involved with the Handshake. One tap on the back will constitute a Bro Hug (more on this later) or you can hold it out for a real hug if the other person is not showing signs of desperately trying to pull away.

The Bro Hug. If you are a Bro and you are greeting another Bro, this is the greet for you. Let us take a minute to outline the required steps, so there is no confusion. Step 1: Approach Bro with right hand outstretched and shout something like "Brooooo!" or "Homo!" or "Look at this fuck!" Step 2: Meet hands with the Bro in a slap that moves quickly into a grasp that is the same position you'd assume if you were about to thumb war. Step 3: Left hand reaches around Bro's back where you slap him once and only once (We're not Gay Bro). Step 4: Exit Bro Hug immediately. You don't want anyone to see you engaged in contact for more than 2 seconds. With those 4 easy steps, you can be Broing it up in no time! Unsure if you or the person you're greeting is a bro or not? Stay clam, look around, assess the situation, ask yourself the following: Are you/him wearing a striped American Eagle Polo shirt, a faux vintage tee-shirt with with a pun about beer or sex on it, cargo shorts, or pre-distressed denim? Do you/him always find a way to relate conversation to an episode of South Park? Have you/him ever engaged in a keg stand for more than 20 seconds? Do you/him know the rules of Beer Pong better than the rules of Tic Tac Toe? If any or all of these things are the case, you/him are most likely a Bro. Let the Bro Hugging commence.

Note: A Bro Hug should never under any circumstance be committed by a straight female. Unless she never wants to get laid again.

Let's take a quick break and hear a testimonial!

"Bro Hug Horror Story"
"Hey Bros, My name is F*** S***. As the acting president of Phi Data Alpha Omega Shere Khan, I've done my fair share of bro hugging. In fact, I had pretty much perfected the art. Unfortunately the Bro Hug had become so ingrained in my psyche, it started to take over my life. I was fine for the 8 months out of the year that I was living on campus at U**** and the only people I came in contact with over the age of 22 were my professors. (And that wasn't very often, not gonna lie bro). It was the time spent off campus: Thanksgiving, Christmas, even Summer break, when I began to realize I had a problem. First my grandmother spat out her false teeth when my Bro Hug back slap hit her scoliosis and osteoporosis ridden spine too hard on Christmas Eve. Then my girlfriend at the time dumped my ass after I Bro Hugged her mom when meeting her for the first time. The final straw came when my cousin Jenny filed a restraining order against me when I managed to Bro Hug her 4 month old baby on Easter Sunday. Finally I was able to admit to myself that I needed help. Thanks to the support and advice from TMM, I am now able to regulate my use of the BroHug to an appropriate and controlled manner. Thanks, Bro!"

And thank you, F*** S***!

Now, moving on...

It is finally that time. The time we have all been dreading. The time to discuss the cheek kiss. If you are living in America (or any other country that values personal space above all else) you are fortunate enough to be a part of a society that outlawed the cheek kiss along with terrorism and French foods back in 2000. However if you're an American living in a European society (let's say an English one, for sake of argument), you will feel bemused, bewildered, and utterly bamboozled by the constant onslaught of people launching themselves at your cheek. If you don't learn to except and adhere to this practice you will quickly become less wanted in the country than say, Snoop Dogg or Australians. You must embrace it, and accept the fact that more often than not, you're going to get it wrong. There are so many different variations of the cheek kiss that its almost impossible to be on the same page as the other person. There is instant panic while you decide which cheek to go for first. Do you actually kiss the cheek or just touch cheeks and kiss the air? How many kisses do you do? Do you hug while you cheek kiss? Do men cheek kiss? How familiar should you be with someone before you cheek kiss them? These are all good questions. And fuck if I know the answers.

Monkey Fun Fact of the Day

#53. All Monkeys are inexplicably allergic to domesticated cats (lions and tigers and stuff are cool).

Sightings

Monkey + Gorillaz + Dennis Hopper

Monkey Fun Fact of the Day

#629. Monkeys enjoy Monkey Brain Stew just as much as you and I.

Sightings

Monkey Puzzle Tree(wtf?)


The Drunken Monkey
(trendy)


Monkfish(not trendy)


Morley's Fried Chicken
(Looks like "Monkey's")
(Looks like it says "Monkey's" as in "Monkey's Fried Chicken" not looks like there are monkeys involved in any other way)
(still a bit racist?)


Monky

Monkey Fun Fact of the Day

#342. Although Monkeys are ashamed of masturbating in public, it is the only way they can successfully get off.

A Poem

Here is a poem. Any resemblance to real people, places, or things is unintended and completely coincidental.

Hey, Boss Lady
A Poem

Hey hey hey Boss Lady,
look at you
With your shoes
You're the Big Bad Boss
and you're a lady
and I support that.

No.....No
Just a pint
and even if I was
it don't matter
cuz
I gotta say what I gotta say
Boss Lay-day

You, you, you
just don't appreciate
me, moi, myself... I
you strut around
"I'm the boss, look at me"
and you don't care...
about me.

or the Environment!
With your Range Rover Sport
and your weekend trips to Spain
and and and
your Range Rover Sport

You can't keep on in-
infiltrating me-
in-infuriating me...
INFERIOR...ating me.
because I am a human being
and I have NEEDS.

So thats why...i QUIT!
You can take your green energy
shit and SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!
I know how much you like things
UP YOUR ASS!
YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, I QUIT!!

I QUIT.

I Quit...

...i quit...

...i quit?....

oh shit.

Monkeys On Wheels

In London, as in most cities presumably (except LA) there are various forms of transportation at one's disposal. Taking into consideration my financial status, knowledge of the city or lack thereof, proximity to areas of interest, and phobia of being in enclosed places with strangers, I will now take this opportunity to rate the different ways of getting around the city, in order of "desperately avoided" to "awesome."

#10. Driving.

Don't. Can't. Won't.










#9. Running.
Uggggggggggggggg.

#8. Rickshaw.
Probably more expensive and less private than a taxi, and well if you're actually considering taking one, and you don't live in a city in China where this type of thing is normal, you're just an asshole. Try walking, you lazy prick.

#7.Walking.
Even if you're not in heels, even if your destination is less than an hour away, even if you have a printed map of the route or GPS, even if you're not carrying a fallen comrade on your hip, it's just so much...effffooorrtttt. It's been a long day, and you're tired. Call a cab, mate, you deserve it.

#6. Cabs.
Taxis are towards the bottom of the list for shear reason of cost. Yes, they are private, spacious, smell like Pine-Sol, and have a great soundtrack that includes all the hits of the 80's, 90's, and today. But these are luxuries that simply don't outweigh the fact that for the price of an average cab ride home, I could have stayed out and bought at least 4 more drinks. 4! For this reason, taxis should be kept as a final option and used only in the following circumstances: you are bringing home a new lady friend that you have just met at the pub (it's late and she's probably close to passing out, so take advantage of the sizable back seat and get a blowie while you still can), you have been given an offer to share the cab with someone that has more money than you (you'd do the same if you were rich), you are rich, its too late for the tube and the night bus scares you, you would walk or bike but you don't own an iphone, you would walk or bike but you're too drunk to bike and not drunk enough to walk, you were walking home and you got run over by a cabbie who then offered you a free ride in exchange for your silence. Any other taxi usage is impractical and simply unacceptable. Save yourself the hassle of trying to negotiate price with someone whose only English is "40 pounds," and take a bus.

#5. Bus.
If you can handle the inevitable horror of having a stranger sit directly next you just barely touching your leg with theirs, the bus is a convenient and cost efficient option. For just £1.20 (or is it £1.90?) on your Oyster Card you will enjoy a 30-90+ minute ride where the slow pace and the constant stopping will give you the opportunity to see the sights of the city as well as giving you motion sickness (or is that the smell). You will feel like your life is in danger at least once, but you will most likely arrive at your destination unscathed (unless you happen to have boarded the same bus as the Peckham Terminator™). And you'll feel pretty good about yourself for having saved a bit of money, if you can overlook the sudden desire to get in your bed, hide under the covers, and call your mom as soon as you exit the bus. Don't think you can stomach it? There's always the Underground.

#4. The tube.
It looks confusing, it's sometimes hot and crowded, you run the risk of being sprayed in the face by someone on a train with a fire extinguisher while you're waiting on the platform, and it's not always running. But it's really not all that confusing, it's faster than a bus and less exhausting, and when it's running, it's convenient. However if you're afflicted with a fear of enclosed underground spaces, a fear of subway musicians, or just want some fucking exercise, get a bike.

#3. Cycling.
Nothing says "I'm better than you" better than cruising the streets on your bike. You can weave in and out of cars, take up entire lanes of traffic, run through red lights, squeeze between buses, and clear sidewalks, all because you're on a bike, and you're awesome. Other added privileges include being able to tell anyone who will listen how eco-friendly cycling is (include statistics and a bar graph for extra impact) and being able to brag to your friends about how you're "in the best shape of your life" now that you're cycling everywhere. So get yourself a bike and an iphone and give yourself a pat on the back, because you've reached the higher ranks now, my friend, and that feeling of superiority is your birthright.*See Note.

*Note: These rules do not apply if you are, have ever been, or have ever considered being the owner of the following: a low rider bike, one of those bikes with the tiny wheels and really high seat, a rickshaw, a unicycle, a bike for hire, any other unnecessary variation of the classic bicycle.

#2. Motorcycle.
With a motorcycle you really can't lose. You have many of the benefits of bike riding (forget about the environment, will you?) but with less effort and much higher speeds. And you look bad ass. Only negative: most certain death. You decide.


#1. Stroller.
Ah. Maze. Ing. Try and think of a better one. I dare you.

Monkey vs. Cat

Dear Cat,
I really thought we had something special. I thought you were different. But you played me and betrayed me and I shall never forgive you. I thought you and I, though strangers at first, creatures from different worlds, could put aside our differences and develop a bond...a friendship even, in a heartwarming tale of overcoming prejudice and finding love in unlikely places, where all characters are changed for the better in the end. In the movie version I would be played by Dame Judy Dench and you would be played by a cat. But you had different plans, didn't you, Cat? You took advantage of my open heart and you tore it to bits between your stupid cat paws like you did that leaf that you thought was a mouse.

We are done, Cat. We are done. So stop staring at me and mewing and jumping up onto my leg like my jeans are a scratch post. The act that you committed last night has severed any feelings of warmth I ever had for you. I shall not look upon you ever again, unless it's to sneeze on you.

your former friend and confidante,
Monkey

You might be thinking this is a bit harsh. You might be thinking he's just a Cat, he couldn't possibly have done what he did on purpose. But you'd be wrong. That's just him with his big Cat eyes and his soft Cat nose working his Cat voodoo on you. I can prove it.

It all began when we were asked to sit on, sorry, sit for the Cat of the couple whose place we are staying and who Jim works for, as they were going away for a week. I was hesitant at first; flashbacks of a younger me suffering through sleepover parties at the houses of cat owners with red swollen itchy eyes and uncontrollable sneezing fits flashed before my eyes. But it soon became clear that we'd be stuck with the little fucker regardless of my personal apprehensions. My anti-cat sentiments stretch beyond that of just my allergies. There was the oh so traumatizing incident in which I was molested by a female cat in heat. She humped my leg. Who knew that cats hump. Anyway I've only hated cats more and more since then.

So naturally when this Cat came into our little happy home my initial inclination was to avoid him at all costs, make hissing noises at him any time he looked at me, and threaten him with a butter knife when no one else was watching. But slowly he weaseled his way into my good graces. It started with just a few cute little nuzzlings, then I found myself scratching his soft head, and soon I was inviting him into my lap. He really got to me when Jim mentioned the Cat outbursts he would have when he thought no one else was watching. It's like cat law that he act proper and proud and calm and collected in front of humans, but when he thinks no ones there he lets his inner animal out. So we were pretending not to watch him from across the room, when he started attacking things on the floor that weren't actually there and pouncing on the legs of the ping pong table. Then he bravely jumped up onto the railing, the drop off of which on one side goes down to the first floor. Usually he handles this with the agility that all cats possess, but this particular time he jumped onto Jim's shirt that was draped over the railing, and started sliding off in the direction of the one story drop off. I've never seen a cat more panicked. He was clawing frantically at the unstable shirt, as it slid off the railing, eyes flashing desperately in the moonlight. Jim and I were frozen with shock. (For me also a bit of sick pleasure). Finally Cat managed to find his footing on the railing as the shirt shot off beneath him and plummeted to the ground. But Cat was so obviously scarred and embarrassed from the incident that my ice cold heart began to thaw.

At first, the thought of him sleeping in our bed was absolutely appalling. Then a night of him crying and pawing at the door...can't we just let him in for a little bit? I'll take the allergy medicine and I'll be fine. But Jim said no. Then a night where Jim left the door open a crack during a trip to the toilet, and uh oh Cat's in the bed. I had to watch as Jim literally tore him from the room, Cat's nails dug stubbornly into the duvet. Then finally Jim said maybe he could stay in the room with us. I stood up for Cat. I was on his side. Despite the fact that after 5 minutes of Cat in the bed I felt like my entire face needed to be scratched off and I couldn't breathe, I was willing to suffer through it. Then when Jim got back from the bathroom, perhaps he was struck by the need to protect me, and keep me healthy, perhaps he was overcome with jealousy at seeing me in bed with another man, either way, it was decided that Cat must go. So out he went, kicking and screaming. We snuggled into bed at last, turned the light off and said our goodnights. Then suddenly out of the darkness we heard the disturbing and unmistakable sounds of throwing up. Followed immediately by the unmistakable smells of regurgitated cat food. Jim was up instantly in a storm cloud of fury, which got even worse when he turned the light on, and spotted the Cat puke placed precisely in, on, and around his shoes. Cat had somehow sneaked back into the room after being thrown out, done his duty on Jims shoes, hid under the bed, and then ran away laughing!

Well you just don't mess with Jim. Especially when he's tired. Especially when it involves his shoes. Jim thundered up the stairs, curses I've never even heard, spilling from his mouth, and proceeded to chase Cat around with a heavy object (was it a pot?) in hand. You might think its difficult to come off threatening when one's in naught but their birthday suit, but he was scary. I assure you. I'm not entirely sure what happened up there that night, I knew it was a battle to be fought between the two of them so I kept my distance (and frantically flooded the air in our room with Glade, until the scent of Clean Linen hung thick like a fog, and the scent of digested fake salmon was just memory). I don't even know who won. Perhaps both of them lost a little bit of their dignity. But I do know that Jim got to sleep in the bed, and Cat spent the night outside on the roof where the little shit belonged.

Cat could have puked anywhere. Its a big place. He has a litter box. But he carried out his cold and calculated revenge with the swiftness and precision of one who knows what they are doing. A puke wielding sniper. A trained assassin. And that's why I will never again give a cat a chance to be my friend. You can't trust them. And they are evil. But look at his little nose and how he stretches and his tiny little ears. But no! I must resist. Awww he's licking his paw.

Erroneous! The important thing is that its now official and proven that no matter what country you're in or how sweet and cute they appear to be, cats suck.

Rebel Monkeys Uniting

Well two more monkeys have joined the cause. I think we're going viral. Just a hop skip and a jump away from a book deal! Anyway these two are very very special monkeys to me. Some bona fide long term monkey mates. Some people you meet you seem to always have a bond with, no matter what you do, or where you go. And they're the type of people that will know how much it means to you if they join your blog. Loads of love to you both!

In other news, two little mANsters left London for Amsterdam yesterday. I can only hope that The Evil Jeanious Dr.G and The diSpencer enjoyed their time here and their opinion of the city wasn't completely spoiled by the bad tasting water and poor restaurant service. It's a cruel world we live in where a cold bottle of SmartWater™ isn't constantly at just an arms reach away. ;)

In our evening out, the three of us enjoyed one of my favorite pastimes: Watching People and Talking Loudly About Them Because You've Forgotten They Aren't On A Television Show. The diSpencer was particularly skilled at this game and his deep and thorough knowledge of The Art of Picking Up Women never ceased to amaze me. I could use this opportunity to go into the story of the man who looked most similarly to Brad Pitt than anyone I've ever seen and how The Evil Jeanious blew any chance with B. Pitt by turning her BACK to him when she passed him on the way to the bathroom, but I won't bore you with such things. Besides, I've basically just told the whole story. What I would like to comment on is the diSpencer's aversion to some of the style choices made by females here. Perhaps his criticisms were a bit harsh and by no means should women feel pressure to dress only to impress men (unless they are pushing their late 30's, are single, have no children, and a fat ass. in which case, get your shit together and work it girl. you aint makin eggs forever). That being said, there's no shame in taking a bit of pride in how you look. I'm all for people trying to express themselves freely and openly through the art of fashion. But must this mean refusing to go out until you have cloaked yourself in all things ugly. I like to see risks being taken and I have seen some fabulously dressed people here, but none of them, I repeat none of them were wearing the oh so popular MC Hammer pant with the crotch that falls somewhere below the kneeline. THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR THIS PANT. unless you are hiding something between your legs. and that something is a big cock. or a piece of large automatic weaponry. or you're incontinent and are trying to hide your adult diapers. If anyone has an explanation for this pant or knows the people responsible for designing this pant, please let me know as soon as possible.

Now that I have started on this rant, I feel it is only fair to mention the case of Ferris Bueller and the Dead Man's Loafers. On the night of the World Cup Final, Jim and I found ourselves watching in a pub called The Griffin in a place called Shoreditch. (Don't worry that doesn't mean much to me either). But it soon became evident that on this night, The Griffin in Shoreditch happened to be hosting a reunion of sitcom characters from the early 90's. Is there a way we can get away from this pattern where at the end of every decade we run out of new trends so we recycle all the bad styles from the decade before? I present to you the gentleman which Jim very astutely deemed Ferris Bueller. That might help with a starting image, but I'd like to go further and give you a better picture. Imagine high top black chuck taylors, white socks to mid-calf, khaki slightly too tight above the knee shorts, Hawaiian print button down shirt tucked in and baggy enough that it creates a large pocket of air in the lower back area that billows in the wind, ray ban wayfarers (obviously...this is also in a pub, and at night), and a hair cut that would make Zack Morris and Shawn Hunter weak at the knees. If he wasn't the most popular guy in high school and could easily get away with playing hooky for a day, stealing a porsche, and sneaking onto a parade float, I would totally be hatin. Now let's take a look at his stunning lady friend. Start with her dead dad's loafers (that one's courtesy of jim) falling apart big toe sticking out, white patterned socks (also to the calf), baggy stone-wash denim shorts rolled once pulled up to mid waist belted and covered with embroidered cherries, a baggy denim shirt cut-off, and a sweater tied around the waist. Simply fascinating. It was like they modeled themselves after a photo of my brother and I in Disney World in 1994. I would be upset but I just think its nice to know that DJ Tanner and Steve are still together, are living happily in London, and haven't changed a bit.

Ahh well that felt good.

We have contact.

aha! The lovely ms. alex locastro has now become my first and only follower! this is exciting. perhaps her and I can blog simultaneously from our respective cities and it will be like we were never torn apart by the forces that be and stuck at opposite ends of an ocean and a continent. I am now offering her the position of Rebel Monkey Corespondent on the Home Front. I think I shall need a contact at Mission Control, to keep me informed, grounded, and sane.

Phase one of Operation Hot Monkey is now underway. In this phase I will attempt to assimilate into the culture of the Red Coats and blend seamlessly into their society. To begin, I am getting accustomed with the elaborate money system. This has proven more difficult than I originally predicted. The five, ten, and twenty pound notes are convenient enough, although I don't quite understand why they insist upon being so extravagant. They look like the love child of Monopoly money and a candy bar wrapper. Alas, it's the coinage I find myself struggling with. Firstly, it's nice that I can call it "change" but that tends to lull me into a false sense of security where "cents" will inevitably come spilling out of my mouth as well. At least "pence" and "cents" sound similar enough that if I get into the habit of mumbling prices, people may not tell the difference. My biggest handicap however is finding myself momentarily paralyzed when I have to count out change at check outs. Why must the 10p look so much like a quarter and the 5p like a dime? I'm sure this is all our fault, and we stole the design of the coins and then made them worth more as a statement of independence. But its just upsetting. Can't we work something out? I'm writing a letter to both Departments of Money just in case word doesn't already get to them through this post. And finally, what's the deal with the 2p coin? I can't imagine ever using this, unless I'm buying a bag of grain to feed the birds. And its 1902.

I'm doing my best but I'm afraid this monkey is sticking out like the tracks of a bad weave. I'm oscar mike. But staying frosty.

Monkeys Gettin Funky

Two little monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell off and broke...the bed. Again.

A Scary New Jungle, This Is

*hem. hem* testing testing. one....two....one...two. Is there anyone out there? No? It's just me I suppose. Well, I can finally say that I have successfully invaded enemy territory. It was a grueling journey, the planning of which has been in the works for months now. My arrival coincided with the original Rebel Monkey Day of Idependence, a feat that I find both practical and poetic. 200 (or something) years ago, my monkey forefathers escaped the stifling rule of the Mother Country. But we lost a lot of good monkeys in the process. And now, I'm here to seek my revenge. To undermine the Monkarchy and impress our colonial way of life on the people. Or maybe just throw some tea in one of their rivers. We'll see how it goes.

But really I suppose all I hope to get out of my stay here in London is well... I don't really know actually. Start a life with my monkey mate (we'll just call him Jim in order to protect his reputation, innocence, and sanity) is first and foremost. But aside from that I guess I would really like to just find a way to be more comfortable and confident in this weird world of human beings. I'm just a little monkey thats got to get used to doing responsible adult things without having miniature anxiety attacks every time I have to converse with someone I don't know. There's a whole strange new jungle out there. One where I have to buy groceries and toilet paper, wake up before noon, and have actual conversations with people on phones (what do you mean I can't text message my bank?). One where doctors office walls aren't covered with hand painted pictures of circus animals, and when they say "open wide" and stick something inside you, its not a tongue depressor. One where the biggest question of the night probably shouldn't be "where should we order foodler from?" And one where my bank account doesn't magically replenish twice a month.

Oh dear, here we go. New city. New life. Same old monkey...