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...