When the zoo was abandoned, many of the animals died, for lack of care.
Not the monkeys! They thrived, using their above-average intelligence (for animals) to mimic the humans who once took care of them.
They multiplied. There was monkey shit everywhere.
A sea of monkeys.
Monkey sea, monkey doo-doo.
“Here’s the door I wanted to show you. Under no circumstances are you to open this door.”
Then he left us to stare at that door, without further explanation.
“I dare you to open it!”
“No.”
“Chicken.”
“You do it.”
“Ok.”
“NO! Don’t.”
“Scaredycat.”
Then the door opened by itself.
They had burned his entire library!
Perpetual optimist, he thought, “I’ll just write some books of my own!”
So he started writing. He found he loved writing so much he couldn’t stop himself to even read what he wrote. He just kept writing.
Too bad everything he wrote was crap.
“It’s going to change you, man.”
“You mean it’ll rewrite my operating parameters?”
“You NERD. Something like that, yeah.”
“But, more power can only lead to bigger accomplishments!”
“Well, yeah, it can, but, like they say, ‘power corrupts’. ”
“So, it’s like a surge, and then I end up with bad clusters?”
When he asked for a re-count, they thought he was just delaying the inevitable.
They were going to make him the Leader, for the next four years.
And then they’d put him in jail for another four.
He was honest, but statistics were against him.
They were just being proactive.
“Remember when we used to just… talk?”
“Remember when we used to have things to say?”
“Remember when we used to have things to do?”
“Remember when we didn’t have such great memory?”
“Remember when we had more important stuff to remember?”
…and so on.
The 2023 Mnemonic Plague.
Never forget.
The last man on Earth was lonely. So he cloned himself.
But that got boring fast: “I can’t stand talking to myself like that!” he would exclaim himself.
He would sometimes hope some aliens would drop by. Seeing new faces would be nice.
Even if they came to take over.
The writer went back to work, and quickly churned out a new novel.
He presented it to the agent, who said, “Hate the title.”
“Read it anyway.”
Later, the dazed agent called, “I’ll get all your work published. Just send it in.”
The writer thanked the hypnotic power of words.
His Oedipus complex had become manifest, causing him to kill his father, and plan to rape his mother.
But his mother had died years before; her death caused his psychological problems.
Still, he found a time machine, and accomplished his goal.
Then he realized when and how he would die.
When you get your dead whale, you’ll find it hard to move around.
You can try getting help from friends, or you can hire.
You can get a crane.
You can manipulate gravity fields.
You can use magic.
You can pray.
There must be fifty ways to heave your blubber.