Most people are.
Bonobo monkeys are some of the foremost forward thinking terrestrials since nameless teenager twelve hundred billion discovered the combination of the soft-serve vanilla ice-cream cone upon his MurkDonals hotcake breakfasts.
True pragmatists; Bonobo apes are able to utilise such pseudo-phenomenal human contraptions as internet blogging, browsing eyePads for porn, and urinals.
Now reader, if you still remain in the competition against Bonobos after the last round test (cataclysmic and truthful fact which it was), praise be to you and your toilet trainer.
If however, the Bonobo has beaten you; thrash yourself against the keyboard and fall to sleep in a stream of your own steaming urine, and smile in knowing, dear sir, I envy thee.
“Enjoy your outlook; enjoy your luck while you have it!” A Bonobo philosopher once warned me.
“Life is like a haemorrhoid,” he continued, “It’s painful and embarrassing, and it always goes to the wrong spot. But once you pop it, and the juice is gone, your arse always feels like its missing something. You miss it you do, like sex on a Sunday.”
Sexual miasma emitted from the heat rays of a Bonobo orgy lingers around a Bonobo colony for days. Farmers have been known to strangle themselves rather than inhalate these vapours which pollute the baron soils of their Congolese pastures.
“Just goes to show you, it’s a matter of taste,” My Congolese bongo bangin’ Bonobo brother went on. “One man’s miasma is another monkeys’ mud.”
Too true, my brain bloated bosom.
Recent research (conducted between myself, three of my least murderous Bonobo buddies, and a horny pack of llamas) has screened a cutting dichotomy of the ape and human races; it PROVED, without any measure of doubt, Bonobos are blessed in the cerebral sufficiency department at least twelve hundred billion times more than man.
At least, this is what they told me, as I walked off to buy them all another round of tasty guava nectars.
”Why?” I can hear you scratching your peeling scalp, “What does this have to do with Litho-mania?”
I bring up Bonobos, not for the enjoyment, oh no.
I bring up Bonobos, because just now I have returned from the vacuumous space station impersonating a city supermarket. Oh yes.
The Vilnius Vacuum.
The Bonobo Basilica.
Searching for rat poison, I began to hear internal trombones beggaring me to ground.
Where is it? This supermarket escapade was the longest four hours and sixteen minutes since time stood still in the Kimberley town of Derby for approximately three weeks (which was a long time, even on Derby standards).
Dripping features as I rumbled along alone, I looked like I had fallen headfirst out of a Dali drawing.
I consulted the 25 clerks of the 25 nations whose language still revolves around high-pitched gargling, angry glares and the mating calls of a mastodon.
The aisles became like rotors, a whirligig of surgery fluorescents and endless padded luxury. I was doomed.
Then! As if I had solved the last riddle set by the labyrinth’s sadistic gatekeeper, I found my sack of poisonous pellets, and made to amscray like a jackrabbit to the till.
I was almost out…but no.
A Bonobo sat gawking at me from behind the lone checkout. His beady black dots for eyes radiated one notion directly into my simple mind,
“Your level of brain function is ill-equipped to deal with the diabolical Bonobo battering I am about to subject you to.”
His stare pierced through my skull like an x-ray. I jumped, jingled my pellets, and thought nostalgically of the mouse-plague at home.
“Is it worth it to wait it out?” My futile human brain stem clunked away at the decision as the crew-cutted Bonobo began chanting rabble war-cries in my direction.
“Little bit English??” I spluttered, foolish to his gaze, and detached myself.
I started thinking about how if I quickly gobble up all this mouse poison I will get away clean.
Bonobos upper lip turned upon itself like a wave, bearing a thick set of jungle jambalaya chewing chompers in my direction.
The brainy black dots shining out from his humungous brown dome penetrated into my soul. I felt raped. Brain bashed by a Bonobo.
I gulped again, wishing it was I who had invented putting the 40 cent cone on to hotcakes. He cracked his hairy knuckles. I flinched.
The future was coming on hard and fast now, like a Bonobo broad in a banana grove.
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