Possible origins revealed!
The walking stick struggled and kicked against a restraining simian paw.
"Almost there....", the stick bearer muttered.
The walking stick, unsoothed, bit the hand that walked it, and found freedom briefly before plummeting through a sewer grate.
"Dammit! I told you it was for you own good, not mine! I'll crawl to story time, then..."
------------
LATER
------------
"Alright, chimparoonies, according to my file I'm only going to do this once
reality stream, so listen up or make plans to rend space on yer own time...."
"La".
"Way before he co-founded an improv group on Earth,
The Monkey started life near the middle of the existential ladder as
Lint, a spontaneously generated microcloth, who lived peacefully
tucked in the navel of an enlightened dumpster yogi named Crazy Pete,
until one fateful and inevitable moment in the dusky and twilighted
time of the evening after sunset which has no name, when a lucky
sneeze brought Pete out of a spiked yogurt coma and into Paradise.
Granted, it was a technicality, but spelling the original nickname of
God with ballistic snot on the back of a broken etch-a-sketch still
means something to some people, thankfully! The few nanoseconds Lint
remained near the nexus of the lobby that feeds the line you wait in
to make an appointment with the secretary of the Almighty's hamster,
Wolfgang, inspired the young poofball to make something of himself, so
when a Ouija prank at an United Nations slumber party went
astronomically wrong, Lint pulled a few strings with the Wiener Dog
King to incarnate himself as a recombinant tube-baby with the DNA of
the world's greatest nation's ambassador's assistant's page's
janitor's pet monkey. As an infant, the Monkey's brain was used as a
sponge, a Kenny Loggin's sing along guide, a paperweight (during which
it inspired the one show run of the Broadway Musical, "Eww") before
finally being sent into space rather as an afterthought, it being
discovered to emit the rare Vrazelion particles which were present
only at the Big Bang for just a few minutes before they realized the
Universe was going to be one of those long artistic ordeals with no
plot along the lines of a "The English Patient", and politely excused
themselves from Existence. Oozing haughty Vrazelions, like it did,
his formative and heavily insured infant brain was calculated by
legions of very bored cyborg grubs to be the Earth's last and best
hope against the viscious sentient decimal places of Dimension Q!
Grub central soon after lost all contact with the brain except for
the occasional, cheap birthday or holiday thought wave. In the midst
of a publicity-driven month-long Pez binge, Richard Dean Anderson died
attempting to modify and reprogram the cybernetic grub corps to
simulate humantiy in addition to mindless destruction and number
crunching intended by their original design, thus, for lack of
alternatives or space to describe them, providing the even-droolier-than
normal Monkey with the nervous system he so desperately wanted
for Christmas. This explains, to the careful listener,
in part (notice how I strategically did not say how big of a part)
my love/hate obsession with Everything, but especially what with
the moving and the noise making and the communicating and the thinking
and what not."
Tearing and also standing up, the Monkey remarked, "If you'll excuse me, the Discovery-Spice Channel is doing a special on Jane Goodall tonight and I don't....ah what?"
Two small eyes, though large enough for the forehead in which they sat to trigger the universal primate "cuteness" response and hence negate most urges to sell or eat the organism to which the eyes belonged, looked up the the elder Monkey in conjunction with a question: "Wha bou imp off?", it said. It was cute, true, but I'm not in the mood to imagine any particularly distinguishing simian genitalia at the moment. Please accept the literary convenience provided by the Neuter, and let's move on, shall we?
"Ah! Improv! Yes! Well, aren't you clever enough to cull? There is rank speculation that the Monkey's original brain did, in fact, arrive in Dimension Q - destroying it and it's decimal inhabitants with a single outraged Vrazelion molecule. The resultant fluxing reality shards pierced the fabric of space and time itself! Thus, his brain being everywhere and yet so infinitely scattered, the Monkey only feels whole at times like improv, when he and the world around him, the naughtience, are channeling the most freely chaotic of energies."
"Imp off make happy Monkey!", the bearer of the too-cute-to-eat-or-sell eyes exclaimed, before melting into small jigsaw pieces of effervescent nano-jello bound for infinity.
"Interjection, progeny!"
The Monkey has left the terminal.
"Almost there....", the stick bearer muttered.
The walking stick, unsoothed, bit the hand that walked it, and found freedom briefly before plummeting through a sewer grate.
"Dammit! I told you it was for you own good, not mine! I'll crawl to story time, then..."
------------
LATER
------------
"Alright, chimparoonies, according to my file I'm only going to do this once
reality stream, so listen up or make plans to rend space on yer own time...."
"La".
"Way before he co-founded an improv group on Earth,
The Monkey started life near the middle of the existential ladder as
Lint, a spontaneously generated microcloth, who lived peacefully
tucked in the navel of an enlightened dumpster yogi named Crazy Pete,
until one fateful and inevitable moment in the dusky and twilighted
time of the evening after sunset which has no name, when a lucky
sneeze brought Pete out of a spiked yogurt coma and into Paradise.
Granted, it was a technicality, but spelling the original nickname of
God with ballistic snot on the back of a broken etch-a-sketch still
means something to some people, thankfully! The few nanoseconds Lint
remained near the nexus of the lobby that feeds the line you wait in
to make an appointment with the secretary of the Almighty's hamster,
Wolfgang, inspired the young poofball to make something of himself, so
when a Ouija prank at an United Nations slumber party went
astronomically wrong, Lint pulled a few strings with the Wiener Dog
King to incarnate himself as a recombinant tube-baby with the DNA of
the world's greatest nation's ambassador's assistant's page's
janitor's pet monkey. As an infant, the Monkey's brain was used as a
sponge, a Kenny Loggin's sing along guide, a paperweight (during which
it inspired the one show run of the Broadway Musical, "Eww") before
finally being sent into space rather as an afterthought, it being
discovered to emit the rare Vrazelion particles which were present
only at the Big Bang for just a few minutes before they realized the
Universe was going to be one of those long artistic ordeals with no
plot along the lines of a "The English Patient", and politely excused
themselves from Existence. Oozing haughty Vrazelions, like it did,
his formative and heavily insured infant brain was calculated by
legions of very bored cyborg grubs to be the Earth's last and best
hope against the viscious sentient decimal places of Dimension Q!
Grub central soon after lost all contact with the brain except for
the occasional, cheap birthday or holiday thought wave. In the midst
of a publicity-driven month-long Pez binge, Richard Dean Anderson died
attempting to modify and reprogram the cybernetic grub corps to
simulate humantiy in addition to mindless destruction and number
crunching intended by their original design, thus, for lack of
alternatives or space to describe them, providing the even-droolier-than
normal Monkey with the nervous system he so desperately wanted
for Christmas. This explains, to the careful listener,
in part (notice how I strategically did not say how big of a part)
my love/hate obsession with Everything, but especially what with
the moving and the noise making and the communicating and the thinking
and what not."
Tearing and also standing up, the Monkey remarked, "If you'll excuse me, the Discovery-Spice Channel is doing a special on Jane Goodall tonight and I don't....ah what?"
Two small eyes, though large enough for the forehead in which they sat to trigger the universal primate "cuteness" response and hence negate most urges to sell or eat the organism to which the eyes belonged, looked up the the elder Monkey in conjunction with a question: "Wha bou imp off?", it said. It was cute, true, but I'm not in the mood to imagine any particularly distinguishing simian genitalia at the moment. Please accept the literary convenience provided by the Neuter, and let's move on, shall we?
"Ah! Improv! Yes! Well, aren't you clever enough to cull? There is rank speculation that the Monkey's original brain did, in fact, arrive in Dimension Q - destroying it and it's decimal inhabitants with a single outraged Vrazelion molecule. The resultant fluxing reality shards pierced the fabric of space and time itself! Thus, his brain being everywhere and yet so infinitely scattered, the Monkey only feels whole at times like improv, when he and the world around him, the naughtience, are channeling the most freely chaotic of energies."
"Imp off make happy Monkey!", the bearer of the too-cute-to-eat-or-sell eyes exclaimed, before melting into small jigsaw pieces of effervescent nano-jello bound for infinity.
"Interjection, progeny!"
The Monkey has left the terminal.