I am a shaved ape. They buzzed off my fur; it is still sticking in clumps to my forehead. They asked if I wanted gel and I told them to spread it all over my body.

Because I wanted to be a sexy modern man. I looked like Goose from Top Gun. I looked sexier than Richard Greco in a banana hammock or a greased up Hasselhoff. Sexy hairy bitches wanted me to lift them up where they belong. They wanted to practice dirty, hairy dancing. They wanted me to bust the ghosts of former lovers, be the kid to karate chop their old apefriends.

I was elected president of The Hair Club for Primates. I said the corny line that everybody says: “I’m not just a member, but I’m also the czar.” Then I said, “I could tell you the secret ingredient of our product, but then I’d have to kill you. And by kill you I mean blow you up with a nuclear warhead shoved into your urethra.” Then I said, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so get to your local pet store first thing tomorrow for the early bird special – one California condor and a bucket of worms.” (I was also the pitchman for Pets Mills Stores and I was able to work suggestive advertising suavely into my monologues.)

I got sent to prison for jaywalking on an airplane tarmac and kicking in the slats of a Cessna 182 when it crossed my path. Don’t even ask me if the thing that nobody wants to happen in prison happened to me. That’s a foolish question. I wanted it to happen every time.

Once I was out, everybody wanted to know me. I got a reality television show where I acted the fool, let my hair grow back, punched walls and said really racist things about other primates. I won’t even repeat my slur against orangutans.

It was around this time that my popularity inexplicably waned in the States. That’s when I found out that I was big in Japan. They had me all over their TV: variety shows, pro wrestling circuits, sumo wrestling matches and sushi evaluations.

From there I went to Germany and drank the entire country under the table. To Turkey for a bath and a hookah, to Egypt to swing from the Sphinx’s nostrils, to Finland to record a neo-glam album about snow and suicide, to England for a rousing discussion of the importance of Sherlock Homes in defining the characteristics of the detective in modern literature, to Ireland for a discussion about how fucked up the English are, to Denmark to stick my fingers in dikes, to Holland for hash and hoes, to Mongolia to make funny faces, to China to jog along the great wall, to Tuva for throat singing lessons, to India to lose some weight and pray to a cow, to blah blah blah.

I wrote about all of this on my blog. Upon my triumphant return to the States I was lauded as the new Mark Twain. My wit and wisdom were unparalleled in human history, but it was awkward as I am not human.

I devolved back to my Sasquatch ways and hid up in the Pacific Northwest. I wrote letters to world leaders and to other primates. “Kofi, keep it real.” “Koko, eat your meals.”

My posse and I hid from humans and partied. We have all the fool’s gold a man could want. We have the costumes that Walt Disney developed to fake people out. We have the bananas. We have most of our marbles.

Blah, blah, blah.