Et Tu, Koko?

"I'm getting real tired of this crap."

“I’m getting real tired of this crap.”

You wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of pants, would you? Mine are currently…inadequate. See, Wife and I just visited the gorilla exhibit at the zoo, and, well – how do I put this? – I soiled myself. Allow me to explain. In anticipation of having our weekends booked until the end of time, Wife and I decided to treat ourselves to a two-day vacation that included a jaunt to the Franklin Park Zoo. While not quite the crown jewel of Boston, FPZ is easily the crown polyester liner: it’s cheap, crumbling, and smells like a sweaty, overweight king who sleeps on a straw mattress and likes to roll around in the mud. To be fair, FPZ is family friendly and a pleasant place to walk around, so for expecting parents like us, it was perfect. My only beef with FPZ is that its layout is designed in such a way that you are lulled into a false sense of security by the time you get to the final exhibit: the gorilla dome. Normally, I wouldn’t admit to being scared by gorillas, especially in the context of a bullet-proof glass enclosure, but when you have just spent the last two hours lazily strolling past one solitary, obese camel, a lion that looked like he only does the Nautilus machines, and a giraffe-less giraffe field, you get a little complacent. “None of Our Animals Could Possibly Kill You!” should be FPZ’s motto. That is, until you get to the gorilla dome. There I was, directing my extremely pregnant Wife to smile so I could snap a photo of her standing mere feet from a large silverback gorilla when…THWACK! The gorilla slammed his fifty-pound fist into the reinforced partition, prompting Wife, myself, and the rest of the onlookers to scream. I’m serious – we all screamed. Afterwards, I could have sworn I saw the gorilla laughing. Now, about those pants.



The Super-est Commercial

"Monkeys don't wear aprons! Read Nailsbails!"

“Monkeys don’t wear aprons! Read Nailsbails!”

I love the Superbowl. But not because I love the strategy and competition inherent in high-stakes Professional American Football. No, I love the Superbowl for one reason only: the commercials. To me, there is nothing more invigorating than watching opposing capitalist entities compete for the hard-earned incomes of millions of Americans in thirty second bursts of hard-hitting brand messaging. It’s almost like…like football! I love Superbowl commercials so much, that I went to the trouble of writing my own. Here goes.


A BABY is sitting on the toilet, reading the wildly popular syndicated humor column, Nailsbails (hint, hint, publishers!!!), and smoking a cigar (babies don’t typically smoke cigars or read syndicated humor columns, which makes this scenario both novel and humorous).


This Nailbails fellow is a hoot!

The baby’s enjoyment of the hilarious humor column is interrupted by an abrupt KNOCK!



The door opens a crack. A PIG pops their head in.


You almost done with that Nailsbails column? I’m bacon you to let me read it.

LAUGHTER from an unknown source.


Get out! Monkey, tell Pig to leave me alone!

A MONKEY wearing a laced apron appears.


Pig, leave Baby alone.


Alright, alright! Be a baby about it!


The Habit

Stop it.

It’s a real nail biter. By “it” I mean “me,” and by “nail biter” I mean “nail biter.” That is because I am a nail biter. Yes, I am fully aware that nail biting is a disgusting, unsightly habit that makes you look like a primate in the eyes of fellow Homo sapiens. For purposes of specificity, let’s just say that I look uncannily like Cheirogaleus medius when I bite my nails. And just for those of you who missed the bus on primate biology, that’s the fat-tailed dwarf lemur. Incidentally, the Primate Biology Bus is driven by a Peruvian spider monkey who wears a tuxedo and top hat and honks a small rubber horn with its tail. You can’t miss it. Back to nail biting. I must admit the situation is dire. I mean, my fingernails are in a permanent state of stubbiness. Not to mention the dirty looks I get from friends and co-workers whenever I decide to snack on my pinkie. What I need is some sort of deterrent to prevent me from habitually nibbling and gnawing. Perhaps the Peruvian spider monkey could follow me around with a spray bottle and spritz me whenever my fingers stray dangerously close to my chompers. Then again Mr. Monkey has a bus route to attend to. Oh, well. At the very least perhaps I could get a good referral. I’m sure Mr. Monkey has out-of-work monkey friends who could use a little freelance nail biter spritzing experience on their resumes. After all, times are tough. Especially for monkeys.