Thursday, December 6, 2007

Operation Monkey Shines:
The Power Pagoda Rescue Mission

Ah, the subtle joys of the Underpantsatorium. Really, have I mentioned that Dr. Zaius is a genius? Jimmy Carter may have brought back the cardigan, but truly, under a Zaius/Gregarious presidency, I foresee the end of the housing slump when everyone rushes to get their own underpantsatorium.

Ellen and I were enjoying the finer points of underpantseria, when through the bubbling wafts of hookah smoke, I spied a note slipped under the door. It was a communique from our manservant, Enrique.

"Communique de Enrique" was engraved at the top. Expensive engraving, the finest linen stationery. But then, I know that because I gave that stationery to Enrique last year for Christmas.

In the best penmanship of all human history were written the words "Evil Spock missing. Presumed location: Monkerstein's Power Pagoda".

"Lord, Ellen. The malevolent macaque is at it again. The diabolical monkey is trying to fix both the '08 and '12 elections!".

"That's surprising foresight for a monkey." She exhaled fat wafts of hookah smoke. "Are we going?"

"I dunno." I bit at my gold-tipped pinkie nail. "Really, the Tesla's not been the same since the monkey dumped it in the pond. I'm not having Enrique drive the Bentley, just to have the monkey cock that up too."

"We must consider the needs of the few," Ellen said thoughtfully. "Call Jon," she suggested.

"The Intergalactic Gladiator?" I looked at Ellen as though she'd lost her mind. "This is our mission, Ellen. Really."

"No, see if he'll lend you the Danger Sled."

I called Jon. No dice. The Danger Sled was being retrofitted for a biodiesel engine. Something about adding a Fry-O-Later for long intergalactic trips. I rolled my eyes to heaven. French fries are murder on your ass.

My eyes fell on Freida Bee, who was drawing a long, langorious pull from the hookah. "Maybe we can stay put and try simple diplomacy," I offered, wistfully.

"Yes!" said Ellen. "Perhaps there is someone who can knock some sense into that monkey?"

"Right," I agreed, giving a little wink in Freida's direction. "Who's the best at slapping the monkey?"

"Samurai Frog!" we giggled in unison.

Enrique worked up a satellite link to Mars, where Samurai has been cooling his flippers.

"No can do, ladies." Samurai responded. "It's Martian Ladies Innoculation Night, I'm not budging. Not even for a phone call."


"Uh, yeah" Samurai sounded sheepish. "Turns out frogs can be deadly to the ladies. But I worked up an antidote, and not a minute too soon because Martian babes are smoking hawt!!"

"You know, this is a job for the Hypno-Tits," said Ellen.

"I know," I said ruefully. One can't deny the life-affirming power of my jugs. Freida smiled at me and gave me a little wave off, a by-all-means-go gesture. Poets. I sighed. "There's gas in the Viper. We'll take that. Monkey can't screw it up, it's a Dodge."

A few hours later we were approaching the Monkerstein compound. I fought the urge to drop the Viper into second and fishtail it all over the monkey's lawn. We needed to be quiet.

We stashed the Viper in a cluster of boxwoods, trimmed to look like a Terpsichorean bacchanalia. I do need the name of the monkey's landscaper....

We crept up to Monkey's rec room. He was not alone. I could not for a moment mistake that pointy head seated next to him on the sofa. It was Sleestak! An evil merger? What in heavens name were they up to?

Then I saw it. Clear as day on Monkerstein's 84" flat screen LCD TV: Hayley Mills starring in "The Trouble with Angels". Both Sleestak and Monkey were crying copious tears as Hayley announced to her frumpy little brunette friend that she was staying on in the convent to become a nun.

Stifling a sob, I turned to see Ellen drawing near.

"I found a babe wearing a hockey jersey in the kitchen mixing up fruit smoothies," Ellen reported. "I hip-checked her into the pantry and slipped soem Chloral hydrate into the smoothies. Monkey Boy will be Mickey Finnished any minute now," she smiled.

"Looks to me like they're already dispatched," I cocked my head toward the Hayley film fest.

"'The Trouble with Angels'?" Ellen asked. "I didn't buy that premise for a minute. Now 'The Parent Trap'...there's a movie!"

We turned toward the Power Pagoda. Frankly, the pagoda looked like it was falling upon hard times. We could hear a distinct chug chug and whir coming from the pagoda. As we drew closer we discovered it was a power generator, probably left over from the Y2K hysteria. A thick orange power cord ran to a chest freezer. Sparing no time, Ellen leapt toward the freezer flinging it open only to find--

"Popsicles?" we queried in unison.

Evil Spock was inside. This was how Monkey was keeping him hostage.

To Be Continued...


Randal Graves said...

What a Underpantsartorial yarn!

Dr. Zaius said...

Ack! Why didn't you tell me you were going on a mission? Well, I hope that you wore some warm clothes. This is flu season, you know!

Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator said...

Ugh, I need the french fry frier in the Danger Sled. Those long trips through space are so boring, what am I going to do if I can't have fries?

Germaine Gregarious said...

jon everything in moderation dear. If you insist on intergalactic fries, perhaps I could send you a thighmaster for a Holiday gift? I think it is perfectly save for use whilst flying through space. I'll go to their website and check for spatial prohibitions.

GETkristiLOVE said...

Evil Spock needed some chillin' after his summit meeting with the Hello Dalai. This was the best place for him to collect his logical thoughts since Monkey/Love is so hot to be around.

Evil Spock is back safe and sound now serving The Few. No need to thank us Evil Spock!

FranIAm said...

thanks for not mentioning my name as I lurked behind the lovely freida bee. she is a real love, but she bogarts that hookah sometimes. i always forgive her though- who couldn't? she is too cute and too smart for it to be otherwise.

Freida Bee said...

Hey now, Fran and Germaine.

Ya'll got me all wrong here. I NEED the hookah for my poetic inspiration.

Geramine, 'tis the sacrifice a poetess must make to allow her cohorts their loves as poetry is the first love of any poetess. Spiderman would understand.

(And Fran, It looks like you may have been the one to pass the hookah my way. ) Ah, fun times in the underpantsatoium. I really must make such an investment for myself.

Oh yeah, I'm glad Evil S is okay and look forward to more daring capers!

Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein said...

Like my running mate said, Evil Spock was just cooling down his hot as a mofro engine. As for the name of my landscaping crew, forget! However I can get you Mitt Romney's old yard gang.

Sleestak said...

Finally someone will take care of that damned dirty ape.

SamuraiFrog said...

Sorry I was so busy, but work on Mars keeps me going the full 25-hour work week I've instituted for all Martians as prime minister. Ms. Gregarious, you and Ellen are always welcome to come by and see how a government should be run. Leave your pet ape at home, though.

Freida Bee said...

Since, you do such a good job, I tagged you. I am wondering about YOUR curriculum, dahhling.