MONKEYS ARE ALWAYS FUNNY Essay Example For Students

MONKEYS ARE ALWAYS FUNNY Essay 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. Heres 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 hadnt 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 Reverends 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. Drakes 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 Reverends delinquent nephew who was living with him at the time. Although Mark had not been to the Reverends house in three days, everyone knew that he could be found at Munnegins Bar on 13th Street, where his band often played. When was the last time you saw him, Mark? asked Mr. Tweedy. Well, I havent really been back there in a few days cause Ive been crashing at Darren heres 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 Darrens house, Mark?Umm mmm nope. Wait, Darren laughed, didnt 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 wasnt 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. Tweedys thoughts wandered, but not too far. Those boys are in need a good whipping, he thought. I dont know how the Reverend could handle that ungrateful slum of a boy. Good, God- fearing man, thats all that could handle an S.O.B. like that boy. It was time for lunch, and Tweedy stopped for a sandwich at Olgas 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 Olgas ( 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 didnt look at Mrs. Drake, and Mrs. Drake didnt 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 dont 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 Reverends 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 its three in the afternoon. Hasnt seen his uncle in three days. Drunk at three in the afternoon, and on the Lords day, Lucy recited. Im afraid Im 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 wouldve been 25 or so about now. What a loss. Lucy got up and brushed her rear- end off with her clumsy hands. Inside the church, a few people had gathered to pray for the Reverends return. Seated near the pulpit in pews that had been rearranged to create a more intimate atmosphere, were Mr. and Mrs. Drake, their daughter, her best friend with the matching socks (whose parents were Professors in the neighboring University town and didnt attend church), and most of the McLoone family (including their youngest daughter, Martha, who had given birth to a squirmy, pink baby less than a year ago). Martin Luther King Jr. EssayThat Sunday evening, Martha and her baby ran the Youth Group in order to preoccupy the children, but the four remaining members of the Popcorn Prayer group found themselves following Mr. Tweedy deep into the slums of Cary. For the Drakes, it was their first time on the East side of 13th street. No one was happy to be there, especially Mrs. Drake, who could not understand why these people would not better themselves and their community. Mr. Tweedy and Lou, the youngest police man, entered room 14 of the Starlite Motel alone. The Reverend Harris was found nesting in a dismantled bale of hay with a carrot jammed in his windpipe. He had suffocated to death. This is bizarre, Lou, Mr. Tweedy said. I just dont understand this a bit. Lou went over to the Reverend and lifted a note from his hands. Theres a note here, Mr. Tweedy. Mr. Tweedy was nervous and intrigued. He imagined his heroic moments captured on local TV. He would definitely make the evening news. He might even get to meet Robert Stack. Yes, he would get to meet Robert Stack and be on Unsolved Mysteries. He couldnt help envisioning the re- enactments. The door to the room was closed, and Lou was taking pictures with the Polaroid camera he had received in the mail three years ago from his older sister who went to college in Denver. It had been a birthday present. He planned to visit her, but couldnt seem to find the time. Outside, the congregation brewed their own personal storms. Was the Reverend in there? What had happened? The women sat in the mini van, leather cases of Mace in hand. Two young black boys rode their bicycles around the parking lot, trying to get a look at the situation. Those black people just dont know any barriers, Mrs. Drake snapped. They just let their children run around like this? Its almost dark out, and why would those children want to see whats going on here anyway? What sick, sick people. Sick, sick, sick, she said, and when her mind gathered too much momentum, about to explode, she would bark the word sick and shake her head. Mrs. McLoone stared at her, blinking. The two men were standing outside the motel room with their ears to the door. Mr. McLoone mentioned that he had always known that Reverend Harris was a little off his rocker, and that he wouldnt doubt if he was killed by a prostitute. After all, the man had never been with a woman, and he lived with that wacky nephew that was just no good, no sir, no good at all. Mr. Drake didnt pay him any attention. He had started to question Mr. McLoones sanity last Easter, when he was seen placing a five hundred dollar Monopoly bill in the collection plate, snickering to himself. Finally the door opened, and Room 14 of the Starlight motel was exposed. Both Lou and Mr. Tweedy looked very, very confused. Mr. Tweedy had the note in his right hand, but had crushed it in dizzy excitement. The ladies came out of the mini van, and they could tell by the look on Mr. Tweedys face that the Reverend was dead. What are we going to do? Mrs. McLoone screamed. Just what are we to do? Oh, Christ! Curses!Well, well never find another preacher. Do you remember what Blessed Heart of Mary went through to get a Priest out here? And those Catholics will send their priests anywhere. Theyve got some sort of Priest reserve, but were not so lucky, being Presbyterians. It could be years until we get another preacher. Were screwed. Positively screwed! ranted Mrs. Drake. Her husband didnt say anything. He was studying Mr. Tweedys posture. But Mr. McLoone had plenty to say. Bet a hooker got him, he chuckled. Yes sir, a hooker- man or woman? God only knows, but I bet it was a hooker or some sort of drug deal going down in there. Can you blame the man? Can you just blame the man? Christ. Mr. McLoone fell silent. He realized that Mr. Tweedy held all the answers to their questions about the Rever ends disappearance. Suddenly, Mr. Tweedy was the most important man in town. What would Mr. Tweedy do? He thought about putting the note in his mouth, chewing it up, and swallowing it. He had that power. He could rip it into tiny pieces. He could keep it and have people pay to read it, he thought, swear them to secrecy. Mr. Tweedy felt like the hottest, sexiest man in town, despite his extra 40 pounds and liver spots. He was a hero. On impulse, he moved to put the note in his mouth, but was frozen with horror when Lou blurted out, That weirdo choked on a carrot and died in a pile of hay. Can you believe that *censored*?With the fist that held the note, Mr. Tweedy clocked Lou in the jaw, sending him to the floor. The jaw was clearly broken, visibly unhinged. The women screamed and clung to one each other, and the men stared, frightened, at Mr. Tweedy who was now stretched out on the concrete, holding Lous head. Dreams and bones shattered, both men were sobbing. The note, which had fallen from Mr. Tweedys hand, landed right inside room 14 of the Starlite Motel. Mr. McLoone stepped inside, sat down on the hay, patted the Reverend on the head, and straightened out the note, which he read aloud:Dear Lord, when you send me back down to earth, please let me be as a Bunny Rabbit, for they are the dearest messengers of your word. Amen. THATS it. General crap:Im 21, and go to UF, and I play in a band, and blah blah. The end. I have a cat named Coltrane that talks a lot and beats things up. Hes tougher than you.