Let me just step out onto a limb here and say that one thing I think we can all agree on is that what this country needs is a good Chore Monkey.
Tired of scraping your own dishes? Don’t think you should be the one to run to the gas station for cigarettes, even if you’re the one planning to smoke them? Are you thinking that even a monkey would do a better job of painting your toenails than you just did?
See? This is what I’m talking about.
The Chore Monkey.
Sure, sure, I can hear you now. Chore Monkey? Isn’t that why I had kids?
Well, sure it is! But I challenge you to put a four-year-old boy and a four-year-old chimp in a race to the corner store and you tell me which one makes it back first. My money’s on the chimp.
And let’s not even get started with how Child Protective Services views a Chore Baby. Sure, you put a monkey in a pair of painter’s pants and a cap and hang him outside the second floor to clean your windows and it’s cute; but you dress up your toddler like that and let him clean the windows and suddenly there are vehicles equipped with flashing lights and sirens in front of your house.
No, no. Let’s stick with a Chore Monkey. I can make up that weird little room under the stairs, clear a shelf in my fridge – he can even borrow the car as long as he puts gas in it.
And lest you think me unfeeling, I’m offering 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 monkey?
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