Writing

Fast Fiction: Gary Gets Mad, Kevin Gets Let Go, and a Monkey Compromises His Morals

{Dear Humble Grumpiest Monkey Reader — Please accept this latest offering as a companion piece to last week’s rather poorly done story about Kevin’s talking butthole. In fact, it will probably help your understanding of this tale to read that one first. Not that your Monkey wanted to continue crafting his prose in this admittedly crass vein, but he can only write what the muse tells him to write about. And right now it is office politics and buttholes. All apologies. }

Gary sighed and let his eyes drift over to his computer as another email dinged his inbox.

It was not even 9 o’clock in the morning and already Barry from accounting wanted a phone call about unpaid invoices, Bill from IT wanted to talk about new lead generation software, and Steve from human resources wanted to run some applications by him for new sales reps. There was shit to do.

But what was he doing? Listening as some sad-eyed paper pusher named Kevin went on and on with some ridiculous sob story about how he had discovered the meaning of his life with the help of his talking butthole, or something like that.

Gary had to admit that the whole talking butthole thing was a new twist, but it was the same old story. Every so often one of the sales reps would come into his office with a quavering voice and tell him they were leaving because it was time to go hike the Appalachian Trail or churn butter or fuck llamas or some other hippie dippie bullshit.

Every one of these jackasses would walk out of his office thinking they were going to go on rule the world, and every time they sent him a desperate email a few weeks later saying they made a terrible mistake, asking for another chance because the job market was bad and it was tough to get insurance.

Gary enjoyed deleting those emails without a reply.

“…I guess, that, you know, it’s time for me to do something other than work here,” Kevin was droning on in the background. “And I think what happened this morning helped me realize that.”

Gary grunted. “What’s that? This morning? The talking butthole thing? Yeah, sure. Sounds great.” He shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Look, ummm….Kevin. Your sales figures pretty much suck. I have one….two….three….looks like four separate sexual harassment complaints filed against you by Erica up in reception. I think we can agree to call it a day.”

But of course, Kevin couldn’t call it a day just yet. There were some protestations, some outright denials, some cries of “if only I had known she felt uncomfortable!” Gary had heard it all before. All it did was delay the inevitable.

Finally, Kevin gathered up his stuff, and he and his magic talking butthole started making their way to the door. Kevin reached his hand out for a final goodbye shake, but all that butthole talk had set Gary’s germ phobia on edge. “Just go, OK?”

At last, the door was shut. And Gary was alone to bask in the greatness that was his to create when other people weren’t holding him back.

If there was one thing that Gary hated, it was wasting fucking time. And if there was one thing the world was conspiring to do, it was waste his time.

Gary had sales figures to reach, phone calls to make, a staff to discipline, deals and discounts to negotiate. He didn’t have time for Kevin and his stupid talking butthole or Erica and her sorry HR complaints or any of the other distractions that ate up his hours.

These days there were time-suckers were everywhere. People who took five fucking minutes to put sugar and cream in their coffee at Starbucks.

Clueless assholes who shuffled in aimless circles on the sidewalk while they buried their faces in their smart phones.

Wrinkled old fucks doddering back and forth on their way to doctor’s appointments that would only prolong their inevitable demise. “Just die already,” Gary would mutter as he sprinted around them on his way into the office.

At work, the meetings that he didn’t take the lead on seemed to go on and on forever. It was like no one else had anything to do but waste his time. Gary would tap his pencil against the table and check his phone and check his phone and check his phone until someone got the message that it was time to wrap it the fuck up.

And now Gary was going to have to find someone to take over Kevin’s sales territory and follow up on his emails and answer his phone calls. Someone he could trust to tell them that Kevin had left, but not say anything about the psychotic break that had led the poor bastard to think his butthole was talking to him.

It never seemed to end. How was a man supposed to get ahead when the whole world was holding him back?

Writing

Not So Fast Fiction: The Day Kevin’s Butthole Took Over

{All apologies in advance for the…ummm…scatological nature of this piece, but it came to your Humble Monkey and demanded to be written. Thanks as always for your kind indulgences.}

It was on a Thursday at 9 a.m. that Kevin’s butthole suddenly seized control of his body.

“This is the butthole,” Kevin heard a harsh voice whisper from inside his suit pants, “I have the command.”

As you might imagine, Kevin was surprised as all get-out to hear a declaration of command coming from his butthole.

For one, he didn’t think that his butthole could talk. For another, he wasn’t aware that anyone but his brain could run his body.

Luckily, at the moment this “coupe de butt” occurred, Kevin was riding solo in the elevator up to his dreary office on the 10th floor of his dreary office building. There was no one to witness this surprising turn of events.

“What do you mean, ‘you have control’?” he asked, not quite sure where to direct his voice or the question.

How exactly did one talk to one’s own butthole, anyhow? Was there a guide to butthole relations that he was supposed to have picked up along the way?

“Listen,” his butthole hissed back. “I’m tired of being on the ass end of things all the time. All day long I get squished into your rolling office chair and rubbed back and forth against the seat upholstery. I want something more out of life.”

If a talking butthole was a surprise to begin with, a butthole with feelings and life ambitions was downright shocking.

“Look,” Kevin said, once again thankful the elevator was unoccupied, “I can totally sympathize with you. It’s not exactly glamorous to be my butthole. There is a lot of sitting and squishing and rubbing and shifting that goes on.”

“No shit,” his butthole retorted, apparently oblivious to the irony of this reply. “You mash me around in that chair all day. The only time I get out to breathe some fresh air, it’s so you can hang me down in some filthy public toilet and make me do all your dirty work. Then you rub me raw with some cheap 1-ply toilet paper and shove me back in your pants. It’s not a life, I tell you. It’s no life at all.”

“Well I hate to say I told you so,” Kevin ventured cautiously. “But what kind of life did you imagine yourself having as a butthole, anyway? I mean it’s kind of all there in the job description.”

“Screw that,” his butthole snapped back. “Who wrote the damn job description, anyway? I never signed off on anything.”

The elevator dinged as it arrived at Kevin’s floor. “Well, you’re going to have to learn to deal with it for now,” Kevin pleaded down at his pants. “I can’t going into the office with my butthole barking complaints at me.”

“I don’t think you understand who is in the position of power here,” his butthole replied evenly.

Like a battleship firing warning shots across the bow of a fleeing enemy craft, Kevin’s butthole tensed and let three puffs of gas fly. The “toot toot toot” sound was unmistakable to Kevin, but luckily the opening of the elevator doors masked the sound from prying ears.

Kevin’s face flushed a deep red as he hustled out of the elevator and into the lobby, where the first person he saw—of course— was Ericka, the shapely blonde receptionist.

“Good morning,” Erica said.

“Morning,” Kevin grunted. Normally, this one bit of interaction with an attractive female was the highlight of his day.

He wanted to stay and talk for a moment, to smell her perfume and drink in her good looks before heading into the dull gray prison that was his office.

But he knew his butthole could not be trusted to cooperate. Cold drops of sweat formed on on his forehead.

“Early meeting today…” he said, offering a weak smile of apology as he shuffled off down the hall.

“Hey she’s not a bad-looking broad, ” Kevin’s butthole rumbled as he hustled down the corridor. “Let’s go back so I can say hello.”

“Shut up…” Kevin hissed back. He shuffled his newspaper as he walked to create some kind of distraction from the talking sphincter that was now seemingly intent on ruining his life.

Finally, the door of his office loomed large and welcoming on the right. Kevin threw himself inside the door and slammed the door behind him.

“Hey! What did I say?” his butthole demanded angrily. “Are you forgetting who is in charge here? We’re not sitting down in that chair!!!” With that he emitted a loud, long burst of gas that rumbled and buzzed and vibrated through Kevin’s suit pants. “Just know I can do that at any time, in any situation. Meetings. Elevators. Dates. Funerals. And that’s only the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Kevin stood with his back to the door, putting just enough pressure on it with his upper back to make sure it stayed closed, but not enough that his butt would touch.

During negotiations as tense as this, it wouldn’t do to make his butthole any angrier.

“Think about it,” his butthole said. “I don’t just control gas, do I? Isn’t there another function that I am responsible for? Something that would be even more embarrassing should it happen, say…the next time that you walk by Erica’s desk?”

A wave of horror flashed over Kevin’s face. “You wouldn’t…” he said.

“I could,” came the grim reply.

Kevin thought frantically. “Doesn’t that break every rule of the butthole code? I mean, aren’t we supposed to be a team here? If we work against each other…we both fail.”

“Hey, don’t you start talking about teamwork,” the response came snapping back. “I’m the one who’s been getting mashed into the bottom of this miserable chair for the past 10 years.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Kevin asked. “Sitting is part of the job. I work in an office! I suppose I could try standing while I type every once in a while. Or maybe we could get out for a walk at lunch?”

“None of that!” the butthole cried. “Kevin was surprised by the notes of anguish in the voice. “I don’t want to do it any more! I want to go swimming. And surfing. I want to go to nude beaches and sun myself. I want to get massages and have adventures and maybe find someone to fall in love with. It doesn’t matter if you’re a butthole or a man, life has got be more than this!”

Kevin thought he heard a slight catch in the voice, almost as if his butthole was crying. He softened and gave his backside a sympathetic squeeze. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so upset?” he said.

“I tried, man. I tried. All that rumbling and shaking and twitching. All those frantic trips to the bathroom last week? That was me saying that I need something, man. I need something new.”

Kevin knew that his butthole was right. He hated being in his office, too. He hated sitting all day. He hated the 9 to 5 grind and the lack of adventure and all the rest. “You’re right. I’m so sorry it had to come to this.”

“Me too, man. Me too.”

Kevin took a deep breath. He no longer feared his butthole. In fact, he had come to appreciate him more than ever. “Let’s go see my boss,” he said. “It’s time for us to quit.”

“Yeah,” said his butthole. “And then let’s go see that Erica.”

Shameless self indulgence, Writing

10 Minutes of Grumpy Monkey Fiction: Loss of a Loved One, Damned, Bowling Alley

[In which your humble Monkey narrator uses a creative writing prompt to write a short story in approximately 10 minutes of time, thereby saving him from the overwhelming mental stress of having to write for too long, and you of the yawning boredom of having to read a long piece. This one took about 14 minutes.]

Satan, as it turns out, is pretty much a prick to bowl against.

This was the third of three strings (each of us having won one so far), and he was pulling out every trick in the book to throw me off my game.

Hip checking me on the way up to the ball return.

Coughing during my follow through.

Giggling manically every time he hit a spare.

Theatrically polishing his horns with a towel  after every strike.

What a bastard.

But I was a damn good bowler, and I wasn’t going to let the Prince of Darkness get under my skin.

The balls were feeling smooth in my hand as I sent them careening down the waxed lane of the alley, and the points were racking up in my favor.

Plus, watching the Lord of the Underworld teeter around with his cloven hooves stuffed in bowling shoes was pretty funny, even if the stakes were deadly serious.

Swooosh. Another ball left my hand as if guided by radar and knocked down all ten pins with a boom.

Satan said nothing but clicked his tongue and flicked his tail.

“It’s not looking good for you,” I cracked, hoping to get a little payback for his dirty tricks. “I bet God would have picked up that last split.”

“Game’s not over yet,” he spit and hurled a bright red ball down his lane, a trail of fire erupting behind it as it incinerated the lead pin upon contact and sent the remaining nine scattering for cover.

Damn. I sighed. Only three strings left and he was only six points back. This was going to go down to the wire.

It had been three months since my girlfriend had been killed in a car crash, and I was doing everything possible to get her back.

Now you may be wondering how a sweet girl like Jenny could have ended up in hell after wrapping herself around a tree, and I might be inclined to tell you to mind your own business. Not everyone is perfect, OK?

But she was perfect to me. And to have her stuck behind the iron gates of Hell was more than I could stand.