Story Time.

Because I've been productive today, and you've all been such good boys and girls, let me tell you a story about a monkey.

See that monkey up there? That's a white-faced monkey and in person they look like little old men. (I don't know who the girl is, but damn, look at the size of her hair! She could have a whole monkey family living in those locks.)

But I digress.

When I lived in Panama, there was an exotic pet store in PC run by an English woman. Near the front of the store was a white-faced monkey who would stare at customers as if he knew something about you so secret and loathsome that it repulsed him beyond the limits of primate patience. That, of course, made him endlessly fascinating.

One day the monkey was gone, sold I was told, to a nice American family in the Zone. One week later the monkey was back. I asked why. The English woman refused to tell me until I badgered her and she admitted, her voice a whisper, "He has the most disgusting habit of masturbating in public."

If I'd had the money, I would have bought him right there, dressed him in a little officer's uniform, sans trousers, and installed him on a perch near the PX.

Flog away, little monkey, flog away.

Do monkeys call that spanking the human?

Now, I really have to stay away for a while and concentrate on my work. Please, Mindy, don't ask about monkeys again. OK?

(That monkey up there looks like he's a venerable wanker, doesn't he? Maybe that's a clue to the mystery of that gigantic hair.)