The Monkey Story

While I was serving a mission for my church, we were always assigned to work in pairs. One of my companions was an amazing missionary in all kinds of ways; he was bright and thoughtful (I assume he still is), an incredible artist and people just seemed drawn to his enthusiasm for life and his wonderful sense of humor.

Typical missionary stuff aside, one of my favorite aspects of the three months I spent working with him was the amazing and hilarious stories he would tell. To this day I'm never quite sure how much was fact and how much fiction, but with his personality I'm inclined to believe they were more fact than most people would expect. In his own words, one of my personal favorites: The Monkey Story

I was down in Payson, Utah, spending my time doing nothing like I usually do and I decided I wanted to go on an excursion and see the beauties of Utah. So I climbed in my good old 1966 Ford Mustang (cherry red, black fuzzy seats with a little hula girl on the dashboard), and ventured out of my house on the long trip up to Salt Lake City. My plans were as follows: I was going to see the historical Temple Square, the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, the Beehive House, and eventually down the road, Hoggle Zoo. It turns out I have a little Dr. Doolittle side to my…. Oh, I forgot to mention one of the most important factors of my whole story here: I was wearing my favorite set of disco bellbottom pants. They were red corduroy bellbottom pants; they were the coolest things you have seen in your entire life. I was wearing another shirt, it was a disco shirt, butterfly collar, it had wooden buttons up and down the front; it was sooooo pimp.

I was on my way to see the lions, the tigers and the bears – that’s not an “oh my” – when something flew over my left shoulder. I spun to see what it was and it turned out on the sidewalk next to me was a pile of spittle. Yes, something had spit at me. I looked around and the only person in the entire vicinity was a large, portly woman in a pink shirt that said Coca-Cola. So I automatically assumed the obvious and I said, “Hey! Hey you, bag! Turn around!”
She turned around.

“Yes?”

“Did you just spit at me?”

“Um, I don’t know…”

“You just spit at me!”

“Um, I’m…”

“You spit at me! I can't believe that. Look, no one spits at me, honey....”

And she got upset and stormed off. Although I’m never wrong, I thought hey, why not give her a chance, so I looked around to see if there could have been anything else in the entire area that could have spit at me. To my left was a large monkey cage, an outdoor monkey cage, and sitting there on the side of the chain link fence was little bright-eyes. Yes, a primate.

Up to this point I had nothing wrong with monkeys. Nothing wrong. I wasn’t prejudiced or racist. I was bias…neutral. So I stood there a couple more minutes wondering whether something from the Planet of the Apes could spit, let alone contemplate hitting me. When it happened. (Spitting noises) Right smack dab on the left side of my disco shirt. Oh. Oh. I was angry. Not furious, just angry.

“Oh you stupid little monkey….” (More spitting noise)

My pants. The monkey did the only thing in the entire planet that could affect my character: he hit my disco pants. It was over, it was soooo over. I stepped over the fence and up to the monkey cage and kicked it, a Bruce-Lee-kick…gum-bum-piyah! pkah! Monkey jumped off, did a little monkey back flip – ow ow ooh ooh ah ah. Picked up a rock, threw it into that cage. Ooh, it was so gonna die. Well (spitting noises) my turn. (More spitting) Me and the monkey had a little spitting competition.

Then I was tapped on the left shoulder. Spinning around, I saw what appeared to be a lovely, delightful little Hoggle zoo park ranger. I forget his name, it was something like Jeff or John…started with a J, it’s not important. I looked at his nametag and said, “Yes, John, is there something I can help you with?” and he said, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to, uh, ask you to leave the park.”
I was like, “What? This monkey spit on my…. I’m, I have some work to finish, just a second (more spitting). He stopped me.

“What?! Can’t you see this monkey needs some humblin’?” He stopped me again, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the park.” I’m like, “What? I just got here. Lemme finish with the monkey and I’ll go and see what I was wanted to finish seeing. I have this little map here, look, there’s pictures, I think it’s kinda delightful. You should have had me draw it ‘cause I probably could have done better.” Anyways, he pulled me away…or he attempted to – I get a little bit hotheaded. “Uh, Jeff, Jeffrey," I don’t even know his name…John…let’s just call him “J”. “J, I am not leaving this park.” He pulled me away again, “Um, sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the park. You’ve created a disturbance.” I was like, “What disturbance?! The monkey’s the one spitting at all your people who come in here. What’s gonna happen if a German guy walks through your park, huh? The monkey spits on the German guy? The worst thing he can do is yell at him in German. You won’t even know what he’s saying; the monkey…agh! I’m not leaving the park.”

Well, it’s at this time I looked around and I realized I’d created a small crowd of onlookers; they came for the show, I suppose. A half-moon circle of people had gathered around the monkey cage to watch “man vs. monkey”.

Anyways, “Jeff,” “Jeff,” I said – we’ll call him Jeff – “Jeff, I’m not leaving your park. I still need to go see the polar bears. I came all the way up here and I still have to see your little baby polar bears. I’ve seen them on the blasted TV 24/7 and I’m going to see the blasted baby polar bears. If I get home and when I tell my little sister I went to the zoo and she looks at me with her little beautiful cute china-doll eyes, batting them, “Oh, um, _____,” – That’s my name, my first name, remember my first name – “Um, _____, how were the baby polar bears?” and I tell her I didn’t even go see them she’ll go, “What?! What? You spent eight lousy dollars going to Hoggle zoo, wasting gas money and your precious time to not even see the baby polar bears that have been plaguing our television for the past three months?” Actually, I didn’t really have the dialogue with my little sister part…to make a long story short and I know it’s waaay past that point, I pulled away from Jeff, ran over the fence to the other side of the little monkey area and I was cut off by another park ranger. Her name was Jane; she was a burly woman with a little bit of scruff.

“Um, there sir, you’re going to have to stop. We need you to leave the park.”

“No, Jane, I’m not leavin’ the park until I see your baby polar bears.”

“Um, I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not, Jane?”

“Because you’re creating a disturbance. You’re gonna have to leave the park.”

“Well, Jane, I’m going to see your baby polar bears.”

Well, Jane tried to stop me, restrain me actually, grabbed both of my arms.

“Listen, Jane, it’s not my fault your blasted monkey spits, just let me go see your polar bears. Jane? Jane.”

“Um, monkeys don’t spit.”

“Oh, you wanna see monkeys…. You wanna see…look at this, here’s a monkey spit: (spitting noises).”

I guess it didn’t make her too happy. Two more rangers popped out of the middle of nowhere and they started dragging me off. I was throwing a big hissy fit, the crowd was laughing and the monkey was flipping out in the cage, which made me all that much more angry.

I cut them a deal: I told them that if they could pull the monkey trainer out of his back room doing his little monkey things, and I could prove to them that their monkey does spit, that they would let me go see the rest of their polar bears. Well this seemed like a logical idea, or the only way to get me off their backs, so Jeff called on his radio. He got the little monkey man out there. When I saw him my fears turned for the worst: He was short, balding, and his name was something like Dilbert…Edward, Dilbert? I don’t know. Jeff looked Dilbert in the eyes, I looked Edward in the eyes, I mean, aaagh! Anyway, I looked the monkey trainer in the eyes:

“Tell them your monkey spits, Dilbert. Tell them your monkey…tell them your blasted monkey spits or I’m gonna rip your little jugular….” Jeff restrained me again.

“Yes, Dilbert, tell him our monkey doesn’t spit; you’ve been training him for thirteen long years…this close to retirement you should know if you monkey spits or not.”

“What?! You can’t tell him that; he’s obviously going say his monkey doesn’t spit. That’s it. That….” Guess what Dilbert ended up saying….

“Yes, uh, my monkey doesn’t spi….”

I was, I was, I didn’t even let him finish his sentence, I was so mad, but they dragged me to the front gate, they pulled me into their little office and they took a Polaroid mug shot of my head, writing my name below it. I wasn’t allowed to enter the park from that point on.

I spent eight lousy dollars to get into Hoggle zoo for what? For what? To be embarrassed in front of everyone and to have everyone think I was a liar and to get my mug shot and not be allowed back in the park for eternity? Blasted Mormons…they’re always dealing with the eternal spectrum thing. Anyways, they took my mug shot, I got out in my Mustang – I forgot to mention, my Mustang’s name is Medusa, even though she’s a beautiful car…temperamental beast…I named her Medusa. I drove around in my Mustang in the parking lot, screaming at people as they went into the park, “Don’t go in there, it’s a commie regime! Their monkey spits! Their monkey spits!” The rangers had to chase me out of the parking lot….