Hey, Hey, It’s a Monkey

So we were driving home down Highway 94 after dinner. Gary had been quiet since he is in pain with the Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. (If I sigh impatiently at his grumpiness he will exclaim, entirely without irony, “Come ON! I have a degenerative nerve disorder!” )

He was driving even with the Degenerative Nerve Disorder because I had paid for dinner and thus emasculated him. So, there he was grumpily plodding in the right lane down 94 when he suddenly screamed:

“There’s a MONKEY in front of that restaurant!”

Then he swung the car across two lanes, into the turn lane, made a u-turn and headed back the other direction before I could say:

“Monkey? A real monkey?”
“A huge monkey statue!” He pulled into the parking lot for a strip mall and pulled up to the Monkey Bar (and Restaurant and evidently nightclub), where there was indeed an actual statue of a gorilla welcoming many lively young adults. Gary peered through the windows and shrieked:

“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN HERE? WHY DIDN’T WE EAT HERE? THIS IS WHERE WE SHOULD HAVE HAD DINNER! LOOK! THEY HAVE CAGE FIGHTING IN THERE!”

I saw no cage fighting, but it was easier just to go along with it and agree that a place with cage fighting and live monkeys inside (for that was the next exaggeration) would be a great place to have dinner.

So I get back here and look up the Monkey Bar and find that my husband wasn’t just having some type of mid-life episode in which he suddenly becomes attracted to cage fighting, but that it is the live opening of the Monkey Bar and all the hot young women inside must have been spewing pheromones across the highway to attract him.

This means he won’t shut up about the damn Monkey Bar all through Thanksgiving. I can’t stand the thought of his expression when he finds there is no cage fighting, or monkeys mixing drinks, or naked women on jungle gyms inside.