I Like Monkeys

At some point Freshman year, I forwarded the following delightful tale to my friend, Wayne.

I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys. I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing. I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour. Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys. I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad. I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad. I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire. Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better. I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city wasn't allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I have them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they liked them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals. I like monkeys.

Of course, since we go to Swarthmore, Wayne just had to write a literary critique of the story (n.b. I didn't write the damn story in the first place).

"I Like Monkeys" is a short story of daring insight and wit written by one of this generation's most brilliant authors, Charles Groom. Groom possesses a verve and and a passion that are seldom seen in today's too often jaded and self-satisfied 'literature.' He is not afraid to mire about in the lower levels of the human subconscious; indeed, he seems to go on a psychological striptease, ripping off the clothing of his ego while gleefully rolling about in the rancid quagmire of his deep and intensive sexual repression.

The reader is overwhelmed by the feeling that Groom is longing, aching to seize the fragmented pieces of his childhood and to metaphysically copulate with them in an unbridled and wanton fashion, not unlike a sailor in a whorehouse. To illustrate the depths of his psychosis, let us examine the story:

I LIKE MONKEYS

I like monkeys.

The repetition of the title in the first line suggests an unusual fascination with Romanian gymnasts.

The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200.

Dissatisfied with the materialistic bourgeois establishment, Groom engages in a quasi-terroristic assault against a small innocent business establishment by trying to deplete their inventory and drive the store into bankruptcy. The rape of middle-class America is the theme so far.

I like monkeys.

Again, the Romanian gymnasts.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car.

A blatant phallic symbol. What is Groom so insecure about?

I let one drive.

A need to be dominated, indicative of an early childhood fascination with ten-inch-long carrots and shop-vacs.

His name was Sigmund. He was retarded.

A renunciation of the Freudian psychoanalysis to which he is subjecting himself, yea, a renunciation of his own sexuality. The reader must ask, why does Groom hate his penis so much?

In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals.

Can we spell S & M?

I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing. I herded them into my room.

... to harness and concentrate the sexual enjoyment, no doubt. Violence is joy.

They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall.

The Romanian gymnasts are behaving like sperm, ejaculating out of the penis-couch.

Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour. Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died.

There is nothing cheap about cheap thrills, Groom discovers.

No apparent reason. They all just sorta dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.

The goldfish is a blatant reference to his great-aunt, who once thought of owning a gold fish, and with whom Groom had his first significant sexual encounter. His great-aunt died within several hours of their liasion. Emboldened by his blatant sexual power, Groom took up nude origami shortly thereafter.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet.

Purging the memories of his great-aunt, no doubt.

It didn't work. It got stuck.

The conflict has finally arrived: Groom is impotent, yet he cannot curb his libido.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys. I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad. I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.

But, alas, can we ever stop time?

Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad.

Groom's bulimia now plays a factor.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable.

Groom likens the setting for all his licentious encounters to the torturous levels of a Dante-like hell. The inflammation is a subconscious form of emasculation. Where is Groom's penis amidst all of this?

I had to extinguish the fire. Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.

The obsession with numbers; how anal can one man be?

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.

Once again, Groom desperately tries to ejaculate, to no avail. He tortures his penis to punish it for its misbehavior. The self-mutilation placates, but does not eradicate, his inner conflict.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city wasn't allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

The bourgeois establishment re-enters the picture, a conscious manifestation of the forces conspiring against his sexual liberation.

I finally arrived at a solution. I have them out as Christmas gifts.

Groom, in desperation, resorts to exposing himself at the Santa Claus stations at shopping malls during the holiday season.

My friends didn't know quite what to say.

The utter desolation: a man stranded in the existential void with his dormant penis.

They pretended that they liked them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

Violence is the only thing that will soothe his tortured soul, but...

I like monkeys.

... he can't forget the Romanian gymnasts.

-W. E. M. 1996

Swarthmore College