On 12 Apr 2004 16:35:55 GMT, nadacomin@aol.com (Nadacomin)

Hell, dinner and a guaranteed income of $36,500 per year - tax free
presumably, since I doubt magic boxes fill out IRS forms.

That reminds me of an old story - I'm sure most of you have seen it
before, so apologies for repeating the old if you have:

I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for 5 cents apiece. I thought this was
unusual since they were normally a few thousand dollars. I decided not
to look a gift horse in the mouth so I bought two hundred of them. I
like monkeys.

I took my two hundred monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one of them
drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact none of them were
very bright. They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed.
They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt too well to their new
environment. They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at
high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the
spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive;
they all died. No apparent reason. They all just dropped dead. Kinda
like when you buy a goldfish and five hours later it dies. God damn
cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were two hundred dead monkeys lying all
over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It
looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet.
It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one
hundred ninety-nine dead, dry monkeys.

I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for
awhile, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell
really bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and I didn't want
to call a plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately
there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them
out every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food so it didn't go
bad.

I tried to burn them, but I didn't know that my bed was flammable. I had
to extinguish the flames.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys
in my freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkeys in a
pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I
really had to use the bathroom. So I went and severely beat one of the
monkeys. I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city was
not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him I had a wet one.
He couldn't take it either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen
ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas presents.
My friends pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying.
Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.
--
There's no way to delay that trouble comin' everyday