I was having Chinese food and a couple of beers with T and Erin the other night when things got hypothetical.
You’ve done that, haven’t you? Gotten all hypothetical? A little Moo Goo Gai Pan, a couple of brewskis and suddenly everything’s a “why can’t…” or “how come…”.
Erin, for example, wants to know, in this Age of Conveniences, why they don’t offer monkeys that will run to the store to get her smokes.
“They have – hic! – helper monkeys for the handicapped and dogs for the anxiety-prone. I’m handicapped by my addiction to smoking, dammit, and it's givin' me The Anxiety! Why can’t I get a monkey?”
T and I both agreed with her – why shouldn’t she get a monkey? – because 1.) it’s her house, and B.) she’s amusing when she gets going like that.
Leaving aside the questionable nobility of training an intelligent animal to run to the store to buy you cigarettes (assuming the little simian could make change – which I doubt!) let’s look at this closer, shall we?
At my house, assuming that the monkey doesn’t run off and report me to the SPCA, he can be to the store and back in under 10 minutes, especially if he trots. What a timesaver! I mean, think of the things you could get done while he’s gone! Why, there’s – well, there’s my dishes. I could do the dishes!
Wait – surely I can get someone else to do them for me?
Maybe I could get a Dish-Washing Monkey!
And why limit ourselves? What about Basement Monkey? I mean, who’s going to change my blown electrical fuses and move my laundry from the washer to the dryer? Me?
And lest you think me unfeeling, I would so give that monkey four weeks’ paid vacation a year. And sick days. And a 401(k) retirement plan.
Wait a minute. I’ve just gotten a very uncomfortable feeling here.
Is it possible that I’m somebody’s helper monkey?
11 hours ago