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Monkeys Are Always Funny Essay, Research Paper

MONKEYS ARE ALWAYS FUNNY

Bob Dylan sings about monkeys.

Bob Dylan sings about monkeys doing a dance in one of his songs on “Another Side of Bob Dylan.” In the song, he asks his monkey to do the dog, and it winds up doing the cat, to which he replies, “Funky Monkey.” I think he was on drugs.

Here’s a story I wrote:

On what would turn out to be the swampiest, most disgusting day of summer, the Cary First Presbyterian Church parishioners showed up at 9 a.m. for the Sunday service, only to discover that their beloved Reverend Harris, church leader for 35 years, was nowhere to be found.

“Where could he be?” asked Mrs. Drake, who hadn’t missed a Sunday service since 1963 (except for that one time she was in the city for a minor surgery).

Mrs. Drake and her husband broke into the Reverend’s house, directly behind the hefty brick church after they had knocked loudly several times, even on the windows. Meanwhile, the parishioners swarmed the empty lot, Fellowship Hall and choir loft, in starched white shirts and the leather shoes they reserved for Sundays. Mrs. Drake’s daughter, age 14, complained that beggar weeds were stuck to her favorite pair of frilly socks. They were her favorite because a silky pink ribbon was woven through the lace, and her best friend Susie Kemeny had a pair too.

It was not until noon of the same day, in 98 degree heat that Mr. Tweedy, the Fire Marshal and Sheriff, decided that something, something, must be done. So he tracked down Mark, the Reverend’s delinquent nephew who was living with him at the time. Although Mark had not been to the Reverend’s house in three days, everyone knew that he could be found at Munnegin’s Bar on 13th Street, where his band often played.

“When was the last time you saw him, Mark?” asked Mr. Tweedy. “Well, I haven’t really been back there in a few days cause I’ve been crashing at Darren here’s place, you know.” Mark gestured toward his unclean, unshaven friend who was dressed in mostly black, except for the red bandana punctuated with fluorescent green skulls, tied around his greasy brown (possibly blonde) hair.

Darren affirmed that he had indeed let Mark crash there, by nodding and holding his beer high up in the air.

“Did he try to contact you at Darren’s house, Mark?”

“Umm… … … mmm… … nope.”

“Wait,” Darren laughed, “didn’t he call that one night during Spinal Tap, you know, when it was on VH1 and they had edited out all the funny parts?”

“Oh *censored*!” Mark covered his mouth with a fresh pint of Icehouse. “Yeah. That VH1 version really sucked.”

“But do you remember the phone call?” asked Mr. Tweedy, who was growing impatient with the two boys in their late twenties.

“Nope. That wasn’t the Rev, that was a phone solicitor, remember?”

The two boys laughed, because they remembered how stoned they had been when the phone call was received, and they were surprised to have remembered any phone call at all.

Mr. Tweedy left Mark and Darren at the bar, where they would remain until their performance that night at eight. They were waiting for their bass player, Killer, who was supposed to show up twenty minutes earlier, in order to get “butt- wasted” before the show.

Mr. Tweedy’s thoughts wandered, but not too far. Those boys are in need a good whipping, he thought. I don’t know how the Reverend could handle that ungrateful slum of a boy. Good, God- fearing man, that’s all that could handle an S.O.B. like that boy. It was time for lunch, and Tweedy stopped for a sandwich at Olga’s Cuban sandwich shop, just a few blocks away. He ordered a Cuban on rye, hold the pork.

Tweedy was lucky that he was so important to the town of Cary. Typically, only the trash in town ate at Olga’s ( a Cuban family ran the place), but because he had to “keep up with all walks of life” in town, he could have his delicious sandwich and maintain his equally satisfying reputation. Cary, most society people thought, was too far north in Florida for any Cubans to raise a family. “How could it possibly be hot enough for anyone with Latin blood, Ms. Nancy?” Mrs. Drake asked her Negro housekeeper, after the restaurant had been purchased. “And can you believe that Mr. Hawthorne sold that cute little diner to them? It had so much potential.”

Ms. Nancy went on cleaning the French doors in the kitchen, which provided a view to the cow pastures behind the house. She didn’t look at Mrs. Drake, and Mrs. Drake didn’t notice. She had taken a new emery board to her fingernails and was hurriedly buffing away.

“That whole neighborhood is just going straight to hell, and that little sandwich shop is not helping one bit. I don’t know how you can stand to live in that neighborhood, Ms. Nancy.”

Tweedy climbed back into his cruiser and headed back down to the church. The Reverend’s receptionist was sitting on the church steps picking at her nails, which needed a touch up from her manicurist.

“Fifteen dollars a month,” she mumbled. “Fifteen lousy dollars.”

” ‘Afternoon, Lucy,” Mr. Tweedy said, picking a bit of shredded lettuce off his blue oxford shirt. “Any luck Mr. Tweedy?”

“Afraid not. That nephew of his is nearly drunk and it’s three in the afternoon. Hasn’t seen his uncle in three days.”

“Drunk at three in the afternoon, and on the Lord’s day,” Lucy recited.

“I’m afraid I’m at a loss here. Nothing of importance has happened in this town since that little Bohiggins boy got his arm chewed off in the orange picker.”

“That poor boy,” Lucy made a disapproving “tisk” noise with her tongue.

“He would’ve been 25

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