It's Hard Out Here for a Sock Monkey

I woke up today in my monkey cave feelin' the weight of the world on my little monkey shoulders, thinkin' "fuck it all" and reachin' for my first banana of the day. I read a book awhile back where the main guy wakes up and says "what the point of dreamin' when you wake up to the same old shit everyday?" And I said "damn straight" and grabbed me another banana. Then this black dog walks in to my monkey cave with these long floppy ears and big honkin' nose and he say's his name is Dorfmeister. Dorfmeister dog? I ask and he starts barkin' and waggin' his hind end like he wants to dance and sure enough he does want to dance! So while he's up on his hind legs with his forelegs pumpin' to the groove, his drooly pink tongue waggin' back and forth I'm thinkin' if I don't get out of here soon Dorfmeister Dog is going to want to have sex with me. But what I'm more worried about is that Mr. Dorfmeister will get so excited that he will make a big creamy boom boom all over my monkey cave, which isn't exactly spotless but it has yet to be graced with doggy boom-booms. So I grab my copy of Infinite Juice and a twelve-bunch of bananas and sneak my virgin monkey butt out the door.

No sooner am I out of my cave and shielding my little black button eyes from the blazing hot reflections off

the Olema shelf when I see a band of Masai warriors astride a galloping herd of giant giraffes, standing on their backs like circus riders, primitive reins of wildebeest sinew woven through the nostrils of the creatures. The long, brown, dusty tallywhackers of the graceful Masai are waving like snake kites in the breeze as they ride up shouting "Run! Run Meester Sock Monkey, the Bolinians are coming!" I scratch my little sweat sock head and peer as far as I can through the waving heat of the distant mirage when I see them: there must be hundreds of the squat, anvil-headed midgets, running and kicking up the desert dust, little blue billy clubs in their chubby six-fingered mitts, each of them intoning a low guttural chant: "woomba woomba woomba".

I've heard about the Bolinians and their exploits on the Mesa, Wildcat Beach, Smiley's Saloon. I've heard how they're descended from a single Russian fur trader and worship a great white shark named Stumpy. I've heard about these filthy little dope addicts and don't want anything to do with them and their hard, flat bottoms, so before I can smell their stale anus breath I quickly down a banana and grab onto what I think is the tail of a giant giraffe hoping to be whisked away with the tall and graceful Masai but no! I have latched onto a dusty brown tallywhacker and the next thing I know I have been hurled into the air, hurled like an Olympic discus above the clouds of desert dust, soaring high over the Bolinas Lagoon where I can see the elephant seals below me laid out on the low-tide mud flats baking their blubber. I fly onward, Mount Tamalpais now coming into view to the northeast and below me a stand of miraculously muscular hundred-year old eucalyptus overseen by hundreds of circling black turkey vultures with their disgusting red beak accessories between their eyes. Then my soaring stops and I begin my descent into what looks like  forest of orange leaves, but as I begin to fall through them, bouncing off branches like the stuffed monkey that I am, the leaves begin to fly and scatter around me, flying into my button eyes and if I had any nostrils I imagine they would have flown up there too and any other orifice they could find for these are not leaves they are the nomadic Monarchs making their infrequent stop in the woods above Coon Hollow. Oh, Coon Hollow:  here is where

I am destined to fly and, by the grace of the God, land amidst the ancient prehistoric salad of the dinosaurs: Chilean Gunnera, with leaves 6 feet in diameter and stalks of poisonous spikes, thus the bane of the evil Bolinians. And it is here that I hide from the evil little turdlickers, tucked between the leaves of the benevolent sock monkey protector, safe at last from what was shaping up to be a very, very bad day indeed. Good thing I have plenty of bananas, even after grabbing onto the brown and dusty tallywhacker of an unsuspecting Masai warrior and being flung miles from the Bolinas mesa over the lagoon to the safety of Coon Hollow, I still have my bananas. Whew! I think I'll have a couple right now!

(Sing to the tune of "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp")

"You know it's hard out here for a sock monkey
when everybody thinks you're a banana junky
every time I try to get down and funky
there be a whole lotta monkeys talkin' shit"