I took a nap after breakfast. I usually do. My psychiatrist says it's because I have a clinically instinctual desire to return to "the womb." Not hers, I certainly hope. But you'll have to ask her about that. If she has any kids, I bet they're horrid little beasts with spore-spouting breath. I abhor children. I wish they were eaten like lobsters: snap, crack, suck, slurp. Ahh.
Anyway. I took a shower. Irish Spring. Pantene Pro-V. I whistled the theme song to The Andy Griffith Show as I shaved. Brushed my teeth with Aquafresh and masturbated into the toilet bowl. Poetic?
When I stepped out from the bathroom, a silverback gorilla was humping my sofa. I had to think fast. Because he didn't seem satisfied with the sofa*. I was, undoubtedly, his next victim-gorilla sperm receptacle.
Know what I did? I materialized a tranquilizer dart from thin air and threw it at my would-be simian rapist's chest.
I dressed (shirt, tie, underwear, pants, socks last) and walked out of my apartment, but not before I heaved the gorilla's carcass out of the window and maybe -- I haven't checked the news since -- into traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. I care not. Come and arrest me, crazies.
Stepped outside. Procedure. Left pocket: cell phone. Right pocket: smokes. Back right pocket: wallet. Back right pocket: empty.
Back right pocket empty! Hell and damnation, not again.
I walked back into my apartment. There was a familiar gorilla awaiting me. He was on my sofa. He was, in fact, trying to have intercourse with my sofa. Again. Deja Tom Vu.
Again, I disposed of him. Grenades this time. Plural.
I drive a Lamborghini, a Countach. It may look old to you, but it makes me feel young. You should see me when I'm cruising on the Autobahn. It's like God and steel made love and had a car made of lightning as a child. Woosh.
Fuck me. Oh, fuck me. I am sitting on my toilet, the seat cover closed. I was planning to brush my teeth after a short flight home from Copenhagen. My pants are on, but perhaps they shouldn't be, because I may just shit myself. Least of my worries.
There is a gorilla in my shower stall. He looks mad. And I know why.
Not again. Please, not ever again.
* Neither am I. That piece of shit costed almost four thousand dollars. Last time I shop at Ikea's Mars location.