Listen. I'm not usually one to complain. I understand that things don't always turn out the way we expect them to, and that sometimes we just have to roll with the punches and move on. I want to move on, I really do. But I would be remiss if I didn't express my disappointment regarding our recent encounter. I don't know about you, sir, but when someone describes the baby chimp with whom I have a scheduled playdate as "charming" and "well-behaved," I expect my goddamned baby chimp playdate to be charming and well-behaved. Is that unrealistic of me? I don't know. You tell me.
Ok. Maybe put yourself in my shoes for a second. Say Christmas is approaching, and your friends and family are asking you what kind of gift you would like, and you're thinking, "Jesus Christ, what version of gift-herpes are they gonna come up with this year? I wish these people would take their Bath and Bodyworks candles and their Mary Engelbreit calendars and just go fuck themselves."
But because you are such a good person, you don't say any of that out loud. Instead you say "Oh, I really don't want anything," which you say with a slight air of passive aggressive resentment, because everyone knows full well that all you've ever wanted for Christmas was for somebody to learn the guy part of "Baby It's Cold Outside," so that once, just once, you might have a duet by the fire one cozy Christmas Eve, instead of it being just you, alone and drunk with a stupid sock on your hand who has no idea how to do that overlapping lyrics thing and sounds nothing at all like Louis Armstrong.
And you're hoping, at the very least, that none of your friends gives you photos of their kids set in a frame whose longest side is greater than the cross-diameter of your trash can, and you're already planning your annual December 26th Bath and Bodyworks scented candlelight vigil to commemorate the rest of the Bath and Bodyworks candles that you're burning in a bonfire ten feet away from the vigil, and wondering if this year will be the year that your family finally understands that your post-9/11 freak-out ended years ago and that you are no longer in need of any "defense against biochemical attack" themed gifts...
This is why they invented self-timer.
...particularly a gas mask in child's size small from your mom, because she really wants grandkids but "No pressure!!" she says. Right mom. No pressure. *eye roll*
But suddenly, you are inspired. You realize what it is that you want, what you've always wanted and were unable up until this very moment to articulate.
Me: I want a playdate with a chimp.
Mom: A playdate?
Me: Yes. With a chimpanzee.
Sister: Becky, that's ridiculous.
Me: Really? Ridiculous? Have you seen Jack's list? He wants an armored bear costume for his dog so they can play Golden Compass in the back yard, for Christ's sake.
Mom: Well. That's just silly. He's not getting a Golden Compass armored bear suit for the dog. That would truly be ridiculous.
Iorek Byrnison, ladies and gentlemen.
Mom: Alright, besides a date with a chimp, what would you like for Christmas? How about some more Ciprofloxacin? Maybe if you're a good girl Santa will bring you Cipro, huh?
Me: You guys, Cipro's nice and all, and it's true what they say, you can never have enough Ciprofloxacin, but... see, I've tried to explain this to you before, it's just that surviving an Anthrax attack just isn't as important to me as it once was.
Sister: Okay, yeah, I get that. People change. Priorities change. You grow.
Me: Exactly. Protecting myself from biochemical warfare just... I don't know... I guess I'm just over it, and don't get me wrong, hoarding antibiotics will always hold a special place in my heart, but a girl gets to a point in her life where she's like, enough. Enough with the antibiotics, and the blow darts, and the propane-fueled generators. This Christmas, I just want a hug from a hairy little primate.
Mom: Ooohhhh, sounds like someone's feeling maternal!!!
Me: Suck my dick, mom.
Mom: Well, you just better hope Santa didn't hear you tell your mom to suck your dick.
Me: Santa can take my load all over his fat old man tits.
Mom: Well, you just better hope Jesus didn't hear you tell Santa to take your load all over his...
Sister: Yeah, anyway, so the chimp thing. I really think we can make it happen.
And they do. Are you still with me, sir? It just so happens that somebody knows somebody who trains chimps for commercials. And your Christmas wish comes true.
Now, let's back up a little. This is not your first chimp experience. You know what to expect. Years earlier, you had met a baby chimp.
She had held you by the hand and walked with you, climbed into your arms and hugged you around your neck, unzipped her purse to show you the contents (chapstick), applied it to her lips, applied it to your lips (no thank you), applied it to her lips again, and back to yours (no thanks I'm good), tried once more (well okay *puckers up*) and by the time you said goodbye you wanted to carry her everywhere and buy her a whole carton of chapstick for her sad empty purse and make her your baby and your best friend all at once, kind of like the way you feel now about Kurt from Glee.
And now, years later, you get your very own chimp playdate, and you're bursting with anticipation.
The morning finally arrives, and the doorbell rings. You've waited so long for another chimp hug. Those extra-long hairy arms draped around your neck, those tiny legs resting comfortably on your hips. Those agile, almost prehensile lips reaching out for a kiss.
You open the front door and reach your arms out. Come to me, my new chimp baby-friend. I will love you with everything I have to give, unconditionally and with abandon!
But from the moment you open the door, you know something's different. You think back to your old pal from years ago...
...and compare her to this new chimp friend. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you have excellent intuition and there's something unnerving about the expression on his face.
You can't see his other hand because he's taking a crap in it.
Hmm. Let's compare.
This chimp doesn't so much wear his diaper as he does rip it off and dip his hands into his own shit and proceed to cop a feel on every woman and fat man in the room. It's pretty hard to deny having just been felt up by a chimp when you're wearing his shit handprints on your boobs.
This chimp doesn't so much wrap you in a warm primate embrace as he does climb to the tops of bookshelves and perch on curtain rods and then dive-bomb onto the heads of passersby, attacking...
-Nana as she rolls by in her wheelchair: Ooof! Mercy me, be careful, little boy!
-Nana's Nigerian Nurse: Dat monkeh has de devil een hees haht! You stay ay-way from me, demon creachuh!!
-8 year-old nephew: He's trying to steal my eyeballs! Get him off my face!! YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!!
-Sister: Oh my god, he's got my ponytail. Let go my ponytail, GOD why are is this chimp such a DICK!!
-Nigerian Nurse: Yes, I ay-gree. Dees monkeh is a toe-tal esshole.
Now, am I being unreasonable here? I don't know about you, sir, but where I come from, baby chimps carry purses and share their chapstick and keep their diapers fastened. They don't dip their shitstained fingers into people's iced blended mochas and they don't try to eat people's Nanas' wheelchair seat cushions and they don't try to strangle people's Nanas' Nigerian nurses by their braided leather bolo necklaces. It's positively animalistic and I won't stand for it.
You'll be hearing from my lawyers.
Good day sir.
