Internal Crisis of the Gibbon

8 Jun

"Every day is the same"

“What’s the point?” Thought Steve as he hung from one of the enclosures rope swings. He lifted his legs over his head and defecated elegantly. On the other side of the glass another one of the small monkeys that filtered through the outside cavern banged on the glass and pointed. Steve watched it’s mouth move soundlessly as it looked up at a bigger monkeys. They were all hairless. Their hands too small, their arms too short. Steve pitied them.

“It’s mother should have killed it when it was born. What’s it even supposed to do with those stumpy arms?” He thought and pooped again.

The short armed hairless gibbon jumped up and down and kept pointing.

Steve dangled listlessly from the rope and considered briefly going into the other enclosure to see what Phyllis was doing and see if she wanted to pick through his hair or tug on his penis for a bit. He  discarded the notion. To get to the other enclosure he’d have to walk by Joel who always wanted to talk about some bullshit.

“Fucking Joel.” Steve looked at him where he sat close up to the glass on one of the rocks that wasn’t a rock (you knew because they sounded wrong when you landed on them) combing the fur on his knees staring out at a foursome of hairless monkeys that stared right back, slack jawed and stupid looking. Steve had no idea what the deal was with Joel’s obsession with the other side of the glass where they kept the retarded monkeys. All Joel did all day was meander around trying to provoke a reaction from them. It was a small mercy he supposed. That was the only thing that kept him from bothering Steve with his inane questions, eating all the lettuce and trying to fuck all of the females, even Cynthia, the one with the wonky thumb.

“Fucking Joel.”

Steve swung himself up on to one of the nearby not-rock rock ledges, rested his long arms on his knees and wearily stared out at the not-tree branches in the center of the enclosure. A cluster of the dumb looking gibbons clustered on one side of the glass craning to see him where he sat against the wall.

“What does it all mean?” Steve thought . He listlessly pondered the futility of his existence. What was the point? Wake up, swing on shit, groom self, try to groom someone else (even, on occasion, Joel if he got desperate.) Look at penis, tug penis, eat  the things that were pushed through the small door in the back of the enclosure, poop the things, swing on more shit, sleep. Pick at his toes.

Every day, all day.

“Hey! Hey! Steve!” Joel called over his shoulder. “Steve! Hey!”

“Fucking WHAT, Joel?”

“If I showed these guys my balls what do you think they’d do?”

“I don’t know Joel.” Steve said dully. “Why don’t you go a head and try it.”

“Okay, okay, I’m doing it! Are you watching? I’m gonna do it!”

Joel sprang up latched onto and overhead not-branch branch lifted one leg over his head and displayed his woefully inadequate penis, giant black scrotum, and a generous helping of gibbon taint. The hairless gibbons went nuts.

“This is fucking amazing! I’m gonna show them my ass!”

Steve wasn’t even paying attention, looking not at, but through and beyond Joel’s ass, into the ocean of time that stretched into infinity only to be ended by a painful, no doubt tumor filled death. Things used to be fun. He used to throw the poop, see how fast he could swing around the enclosure, look at Cynthia’s weird thumb for the delicious, gross thrill it gave him, piss in Joels favorite water through… Now everything was just so…Blank, so empty, so colorless and bland. Nothing was fun, or important. Everything would end one day in the inevitable terminus of death so fuck it. He couldn’t even find the force of will to try to hang himself  from one of the rope swings. Every thing was meaningless.

“Sound and fury, meaning nothing.” Steve thought and congratulated himself on his melancholy cleverness. No one but him could find the words to so perfectly encapsulate the uselessness of existence. No one under stood anything but him.

“Steve! Steve! Okay, this is what I’m gonna do, Steve. I’m gonna Swing on the branch with my butt to the glass and I’m gonna try to shit on the glass. You gotta watch okay and tell me what they do when I get the shit on the glass!”

No one, and certainly not fucking Joel.


2 Responses to “Internal Crisis of the Gibbon”

  1. litbeetle July 15, 2012 at 12:00 am #

    I couldn’t stop laughing at “Fucking Joel.” There’s something so sophisticatedly hilarious about a gibbon named Joel.

  2. Tycho September 29, 2012 at 3:55 pm #

    This made me laugh out loud during my commute home on the train. I spit coffee all over my phone. Fucking Leia.

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