I hate people. The reasons are numerous, but suffice it to say that people do not factor very highly in my opinion.
For instance, the other day I was at a store with computers in it and I had to ask a salesperson a question. Approaching a salesperson, I began: “Excuse me, but can I ask you--” and the fellow simply proceeded to walk off, completely ignoring me!!! Not only that, but I know he heard me, because I proceeded to diffuse the awkwardness of my utter humiliation at not being the center of attention by saying “oh, you’re probably with someone.” And, with a dismissing glance, the fellow silenced my question forever.
Granted, my question would have been a stupid one that had nothing at all to do with computers, but that is not the point. It is my right as a consumer to ask how much “fuzzy memory” an Eniac requires to run computer Solitaire, or how much alcohol I require to play non-computer Solitaire. It is my right to ask them if their yellow T-shirts emblazoned with the word “Personnel” are all regulation, or simply a startling coincidence in the history of accidental fashion. It is my right to question them on the finer points of Korean interrogation practices. They are simply supposed to stand there and nod.
When I go to buy pizzas with a $4 off coupon on a purchase of two pizzas and then a $2 off coupon for one, and I buy three pizzas, I should be allowed to use both coupons! The coupons do not infringe upon one another but are mutually exclusive. I should not be told that I am “technically not allowed to use both coupons together”. And if there are any further problems, the salesperson should simply call upon their suspension of disbelief to imagine that I am making two completely separate orders: one in which I am buying two pizzas, and another in which I am only buying one pizza; and simply ignore the fact that I am walking out the door holding three pizzas total.
Salesperson: But two Jacquess can’t mutually coexist within the same space-time structure without immediately canceling each other out.
That is why I believe I have discovered a solution to the whole problem that will satisfy all parties involved. One day, I’m going to be pushed over the edge. And when that day comes, a fearful battle cry will be echoed:
Jacques: Monkeys! Fling poop!
Suddenly, itty-bitty monkeys will pop out from their hidden locations all around the store and begin their fecal assault. Upon my specification of a target, the monkeys will spring into action. Until then, I intend for them to remain in hiding, inconspicuously following me around all day like my own personal contingent of secret service agents. Perhaps I could even fashion little tuxedos for them to wear.
In any case, the next salesperson to contend with me will be in for a devastating shock when they discover that monkey poop is attracted to salespeople like Arrakin sandworms to a shield generator. Like frogs to a turnip.
I could even design special sunglasses and earpieces for the monkeys to wear that regularly feed them intel, informant dossiers, and targeting information. And in between assignments, the sunglasses and earpieces could exist as a conditioning tool, reminding the monkeys how much they love poop, and how much they hate salespeople.
And what could be funnier (and, simultaneously, cuter) than monkeys with earpieces and sunglasses in tuxedos? A monkey like that could seduce anyone, proving invaluable as a resource in undercover operations.
Smitten Woman: Oh, monkey!
Wah Wah Waaaa
He beckons you
To enter his field of range,
But don’t get lice...
He loves only pooop...
He loves ow-nly pooop...
Monkey: Eeeee!!! Eeeee!!!
Goldfinger (a bit perplexed): Uh... no... monkey... I expect you to die.
Of course the monkeys would also bear enormous responsibility with the degree of power I’m bestowing upon them. And I don’t intend to let them into the field unequipped. Secret compartments in their shoes will have a plentiful supply of poop. But not just any poop. If a monkey whistles the 17 minute extended version of Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (with organ solo) in the key of F, the shoe-poop immediately serves as a homing beacon for others to locate. If the monkey whistles In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida in the key of F#, it serves as a powerful neurotoxin.
One of the most impressive credentials monkeys hold that makes them ideal for the role of secret agent (indeed, a most startling quality) is their seemingly total disinterest in the concept of inhibition. And, again, let’s face it: there’s nothing cuter than little secret agent monkeys with earpieces and sunglasses in tuxedos whistling the 17 minute extended version of Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (with organ solo) in the key of F and/or F#.
It’s a comical, though dangerous, job we’re assigning to this select pack of ÜberAffen (i.e. SuperMonkeys). ÜberMonkeys are indeed the missing link in our evolutionary chain. That link that will allow us the satisfaction of confronting difficult salespeople and other congenital morons while allowing us the necessary alibi of not having to carry out the controversial orders ourselves.
Plausible deniability is of key importance in The Monkey Affair. As for the ÜberMonkeys themselves, they can simply profess to have been following orders. What jury in the world could find a monkey guilty of espionage? What jury in the world could find little secret agent monkeys with earpieces and sunglasses in tuxedos whistling the 17 minute extended version of Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (with organ solo) in the key of F and/or F# guilty?
What jury in the world would hang a monkey for crimes against humanity (except for comic effect)? As such, monkeys are innately immune from prosecution. And we... we simply reap the benefits. Our hands remaining ever clean.
But then, let’s be adults here. While we remain in the privacy of our own minds, let us make our own confession: don’t you ever wish you could just take a shit in your hand and throw it?