Monkey Island combines two things I like a lot. I plan to franchise the concept and take it global. This could be bigger than chocolate and peanut butter. Instead of Jurassic Park, think Monkey Park. Shorter book, happier ending.
On Monkey Island, I saw monkey mothers holding monkey babies, male monkeys making angry monkey faces, red-faced monkeys, red-assed monkeys, and monkey couples making sweet monkey love.
There is no such thing as monkey foreplay. Monkeys will never replace rabbits as the standard bearers for animal amorousness. “Screwing like monkeys” means leaping onto your partner when she isn’t looking, having at it for three seconds, and then leaping away with a smug simian expression on your face. The locker-room boast “I loved her like a monkey” isn’t really a boast at all.
One tourist threw rocks at a monkey that approached his picnic. If he hates monkeys so much, perhaps he shouldn’t have chosen to picnic on clearly-labelled Monkey Island. I could have pointed him to any of dozens of monkeyless islands in the vicinity.
I wanted to take a movie of a monkey eating from my hand. One hand held some food, and the other held my camera, so I clenched the rest of the bag of monkey food between my teeth. I now have an exciting movie of a monkey lunging for my face.
Someday I will get married on Monkey Island. I will have monkey ushers, a monkey ring-bearer, a monkey rabbi, and monkey waiters carrying silver trays laden with smoked salmon and champagne. I hope you will come.
(I promise not to mention monkeys again for at least a week.)
