The morning has almost slipped away, but don’t worry, the captain and his men are still hard at work, organizing the ship. And we’ll get back to them, I promise you, because you don’t just go and leave a yarn like that hanging in the breeze. You don’t shoot down something like that without a second thought and live to tell about it. No sir. There are stories that die before they’re born, stories that barely take their first step before being run down by some editor in his car, not watching where he’s going and reaching for the lighter all at the same time, and then there are stories that must be told. Oh wait, there are also stories that beg for death, and by all rights, should be put down, but for some reason, no one does it. Come to think of it, most stories probably fall into that last category, but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t have time this morning to turn into some sort of story slayer. And I’m no editor, and I don’t smoke, so I won’t be running over any poor stories that are standing around in the road with their thumb up their ass, trying to hitch a ride but getting nowhere.
Anyway, soon. The captain, I hear, is getting hungry and may be on his way to the galley, where I’m told, the monkey has stowed away and is cooking up the captain’s compass in a rather large frying pan, all the while using the ship’s satellite internet service so he can keep up with some of his favorite blogs. The monkey may be on the lamb, but he’s not out of touch. There are even rumors now floating around the ship that the monkey is following along with both Bunni and Bakerina as they write steadily for 24 straight hours without sleep to raise money for the charities of their choice. The monkey, who is surrounded by an entire ship of gold, cares nothing about raising money, but is excited about Bunni’s bad horror film theme. He is also attempting to follow along with Bakerina’s recipe for a lovely focaccia, which explains why the compass is rattling around in the frying pan. Monkeys are seldom handy in the kitchen (or galley, for that matter), although there have been several exceptions throughout history, none of which I happen to recall at the moment.
But this story is not about monkey chefs, just like it’s not about bad horror films, although there might be some who would argue that combining those two elements would itself make for an excellent bad horror film.
So if what I hear is correct (and it very well may not be, considering the unpredictable nature of life on the sea) the captain’s own animal hunger will drive him into a confrontation with the mischievous monkey, a confrontation, I’m afraid, neither one is quite prepared for.
In the meantime, visit Bunni and leave monkey-like remarks that show you have no knowledge whatsoever of bad horror films. That’s what I’m doing. Or you can retreat to your kitchen and attempt to follow along with Bakerina as she prepares the focaccia (which is what the monkey is doing).
Me? I’m going to get out my quadrant and attempt to plot the course of all that gold that seems to be in everyone’s way. Piracy, after all, is nothing more then someone else’s sail, puffed full of the wind from your hope.
I once defined love the same way and ended up serving a two year stint for the county. The time wasn’t bad but the food was terrible. Monkeys in the kitchen, I suspect.