I Was A Teenage Monkeyboy

I Was A Teenage Monkeyboy

There’s been a lot of hype about crap like vampires and shit in the last ten years or so, probably due to trashy media items like bad movies, Anne Rice novels, and inbred goth fans. I assume that the next big morbid fascination to take hold of our country is going to be werewolves — at least for a little while — what with the recent release of An American Werewolf in Paris. Well, I’m here to tell you that vampires and werewolves are nothing. Nothing compared to the horrors I’ve encountered. What people ought to be frightened of these days is something much more hideous than any horror movie concoction. Something so vile that even mentioning its name sends chills up the spines of thousands of people who’ve encountered the creature: monkeyboys.

I am not joking when I tell you that your livelihoods are in great danger as the “weremonkey” disease grows larger and stronger every day, infecting hundreds of innocent fools by the hour. How are people catching it? No one knows. But we do know how monkeyboys act when under the influence. This disease is somewhat similar to being a werewolf, except monkeyboys transform themselves into a half human, half monkey creature, rather than a wolf-like beast. This may not sound scary to you at first, but it is.

Secondly there is no correlation between full moons and the onset of this so called “monkey disease.” Usually a monkeyboy breaks out into monkey state whenever drugs, alcohol, wild abandoned sex, and loud music are present, or when they all are mixed together (this tends to produce the strongest outbreaks in monkeyboys). Finally, there is sadly no cure for this disease, although a pair of hair clippers does help control the wild outbreak of pubic hairs.

If you’ve managed to read this far, you’re probably wondering how and why I know so much about monkeyboys. The answer is obvious and simple: I am one. Yes. It’s true. I was a teenage monkeyboy. Now that I’m no longer a teenager, I’m just a monkeyboy.

I’m not sure exactly when it started, but by the time I was sixteen, things had changed a lot. I realized that I acted totally whacked and out of control whenever I went to shows, got loaded, or conned a muchacha into hanging out with me. My pubic hairs grew uncontrollably, until they were a good four inches long. I started to see the world in new ways that no one else could imagine… sights, smells, tastes, feelings, all felt more simian, more playful like. Was I becoming the monkey or was the monkey becoming me?

The monkeyboy in me really made his outbreak during live performances in bands. I played trumpet for a performance noise band, and at the time nobody knew if it was the revolting grooves or the Mickey’s Malt Liquor, but something would drive me mad on stage. When I stopped playing in bands, my monkey forced me to find new avenues to release its being: parties, raves, loud concerts, Jerry Lewis Telethons, cases of beer, and open bars were the most accessible routes.

Over the years, the monkey has grown stronger and doesn’t always need these stimulants for the transformation. I guess you could say I’ve learned to live with being a monkeyboy, but I’ve never learned to control it. One of the things that has helped me cope was settling down with the right monkeygirl. Monkeyboys need love too.

Occasionally, I can muster the strength to put the monkey to good use, usually in artistic fields. Sometimes I live under the veil of “monkeyvision” when I am totally submerged in the state of monkeybeing. Sometimes I write articles under this same guise. Sometimes I shoot mental pictures, snapshots, and videos using my monkeycam. Sometimes the monkey forces me to do performance art at unsuspecting clubs by jumping on the bar, defecating, and biting the customers.

If you’re still confused about this whole monkey business, here’s what goes on in my head when the monkey is acting up: I want to bite everything I get my hands on. I want to be petted and adored. I want to be carried on shoulders and fed snacks for cute tricks. I feel like killing the people in the world who dine on monkeys and make us do bad movies and circus acts (although I’m not angry at the people who teach monkeys to smoke, cause we like that). I want to get a copy of every Curious George book published and poop on them. I want to meet Coco The Electric Monkey Wizard from Man Or Astroman?, and either kick his ass for being my mortal enemy, or befriend him as my brother. I want to hang out with my monkeygirl on a deserted island and have us ravage each other with wild monkeylove. I want to meet Mr. Smith from NBC’s long-forgotten sitcom about an orangutan who ran a busy office. I want to free all the monkeys in captivity and set them loose on the people of the world.

If you know someone who acts or thinks like this, they may be a monkeyboy or monkeygirl too. Let them know that they are not alone, that it is OK to give in to their monkey instincts. Over time they too will learn to live with their inner simian self and accept their monkey for who and what it is.

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