…Monkey Business
Sitting in the destruction that is a meeting room strewn with empty diet coke cans, scrawled paper and well sweat-lined Yves Saint Laurant jackets, a monkey with a six figure salary dances. He peels his bananas, tossing the flayed peel on lit tables and accross humming computers. He makes noises that could be understood as cursewords had the level of sugar and potassium in my brain waves not rendered comprehension dead. He scratches himself through his quality tailored trousers ( not easy to get a good fitting for this sapien) and exudes a pheremonic symphony of alpha-male waves masked with a Davidoff scent.
The Monkey has plans, plans, plans, plots, plots, plots. He is the best. The very best. The Monkey can Make You Money. The Monkey can make you lots and lots of Money. Lots and lots and lots of money.
Of course the Monkey is happy with a tyre ring to chew on and a pair of Missy-breasts to grab in stressrelief.
But he can work wonders.
For enough Bananas, the Monkey will make you ….
He splurts, “…and we’re the one’s left holding the monkey.”
I smile. He doesn’t understand. He eats his banana.
