Wednesday, March 30, 2005

My Third Wish: A Prehensile Tail!

Recently, someone asked me what I would wish for if I had three wishes.

I came up with "love." Then "money." Then I got stuck. Fame? Adventure? Bigger equipment? I couldn't think of anything good.

But now I know what I want. A prehensile tail!

In recent years, I've developed something of an obsession with monkeys. Or as I like to spell them, munkees.

(Not the Monkees. They suck. Smash Mouth's "I'm a Believer" cover was so much better.)

Anyway, somehow my obsessive-compulsive streak has gotten stuck on munkees.

For those of you who doubt my obsessive streak, I offer as evidence the Unofficial Roster (divided by position, using all appropriate biographical data, plus statistics!) and the $500 I've dropped on Civil War books in the past six months.

Then there are my alphabetized DVDs. And CDs. And books. Just the hardbacks and trade papers.

And so forth.

Anyway, I've developed the largest stuffed munkee collection of any adult I know. And I'm notorious around the office for lightening the mood in stressful situtations by muttering "munkee. muuuuuunkeeeeee. MUNKEE!" until everyone laughs.

Yes, it makes my co-workers think I'm at least slightly unhinged, but better that than they know the truth: That I'm really fucking weird.

The odd thing about my munkee fixation is that I really don't like animals. At all.

I do like fish. Sort of.

I had a goldfish when I was a kid. I won him at the Bloomsburg Fair, tossing ping-pong balls into fishbowls, and unknowingly practicing for my later years as a beer-pong player. Actually, I think my mother won him, which would explain why I was so lousy at beer pong. Point is, fish didn't last, thanks in no small part to some bad advice from the fish store guy my mom consulted with on its care. We buried Goldie in a paper bag under first base in the front yard.

In college, a buddy of mine had a major-league fishtank. I enjoyed egging him on - he always said when I drove him to the fish store, he came with more fish than when other guys drove him to the fish store. So at the least, I like WATCHING fish. I love aquariums. Still, going to the aquarium is different from talking to a stuffed munkee.

My parents had a cat, which recently died, may she rest in peace. Fifteen years is pretty good for a neighborhood stray, and that cat had more personality than most. So I made an exception to my I-hate-cats rule for Shadow. Shadow, by the way, for your comic fans, was almost-sorta named after one of the X-Men. When my folks took her in as a kitten, my mom kept calling her Kitty. So I, the X-Men fan, started calling her Shadowcat, after Kitty Pryde. My mother, seeing a black-and-white cat and having no concept of the comics I was reading (featuring the manic-depressive and mildly psychotic Rachel Summers as Phoenix), though I was referring to Shadow Cat. So Shadow became Shadow.

I don't like dogs, either. I'm kind of afraid of them. I was bitten by a poodle when I was little. So dogs - and French people - make me slightly nervous.

Nonetheless, I ended up with a dog. Figures. Actually, my parents ended up with a dog, winning - or really, losing - a custody battle with my ex-fiancee when we split.

So my parents have my ex-fiancee's dog. You wonder why I drink.

Morgan is a dachshund, bred for hunting small animals, and amusing people with their funny bodies. He's a purebreed, which means he cost me a fortune and looks like every other dachshund.

He's curious, like other dachshunds. He's clever, also like other dachshunds, especially when it comes to finding things he can eat. Note I said "can eat," and not "should eat."

Unlike other dachshunds, however, he is not only almost nauseatingly cheerful, he's dumber than a bag of wet mice.

He's got a small brain and smaller bladder, which is why my parents have to walk him every few hours, and why they'll probably resent said ex-fiancee until the end of time, especially when it's raining.

I could tell story after story about Morgan. He's got a very long tail, which is constantly wagging, and I've always said when the tail stops wagging, it will be time to bury him in the back yard. But you know what they say about dachshunds with long tails? Yup, we couldn't get him fixed soon enough. When he was a puppy and still living with me (and her), he used to greet whoever came home first with a raging erection, necessitating two things: 1. Standing back for several seconds before entering the house; and 2. Keeping paper towels between the kitchen, where we barricaded him while at work, and the door. Once, a friend of mine rushed in, scooped him up despite my cry of "Don't!" and then groaned and said, "He peed on me."

"That's not pee," I said. It's a wonder he didn't drop the dog. Not that Morgan's not capable of falling on his head on his own. He does it occasionally, I think just to amuse himself. He's about six inches off the ground, and he hits his head on things.

But for those of you saying, "Hey, enough with the dachshund erections. What about the munkees?" I'll get back on topic.

(stream of consciousness, remember? you were warned.)

Munkees, you say, can be scary. Like the chimps that just MESSED UP that dude recently. Last wire story I read, they were trying to reattach his nose, and then the reporter sort of remarked, as an aside, that he'd also lost his testicles and a foot.

I'm thinking, if that were me, I'd be like, Doc, screw the nose, I can get plastic surgery. How 'bout we put back the foot and at least one of the nuts, huh?

Well, I'm prepared for such situations. I have a special sweatshirt. It has a hood that protects me from evil munkees.

Well, it protects my not-so-inner child. The one who chirps "MUNKEE!" around the office.

The adult in me would run like hell, or at least curl up in a ball and cover my nuts.

I don't want an evil munkee, though. I want a cute little munkee that follows me everywhere and uses his prehensile tail for good, not evil. Or a robot munkee. A robot munkee would be very cool, because it wouldn't require food, or hog the bathroom.

I mean, let's face facts. An adult carrying around a stuffed munkee would scare people. An adult being followed around by a small pirate munkee would get girls.

My munkee could watch TV with me, and get beer from the fridge with his tail, and curl up in bed with me, like Morgan does when I'm home visiting the folks.

I'm starting to think I really, really, REALLY need a girl. Or I'm getting cabin fever and going stir-crazy.

But it's late, I'm tired, hungry and slightly unhinged.

You want a daily, or at least near-daily post? Some days you get cool stories, some days you get dachshund erections and munkee obsessions. Forgive me.

Links:, home of my Unofficial Roster
Smash Mouth, because the Monkees suck
Look up Shadowcat at
Dachshunds, AKC-style
Build-A-Bear, where I got Mookie, my favorite munkee, on his debut weekend (free $2 banana accessory!)

By the way, for those of you wondering if my obsession ever pays off, or if it's just a worthless brain defect, let me just say this: When I went to Mardi Gras last month, the girls LOVED the squeaking-munkee beads! Not as much as I loved the shotgirls at 711, but that's a whole 'nother post...