Aaron

Little monkey hands and little monkey pants do not a monkey make, for in my heart of hearts beat the parts that no one else can take. What nobody else figured in the long and thick parts of the tree, or the stalk of the bean for that matter, was that I ran so fast that they did not even think to look for footprints. Footprints on the beach, though, they last just about as long as ice cream in a swimming pool or mustard at the 14th Semi-Annual Weiner Extravaganza (based in St. Paul, but hosted in St. Louis by a man named St. Pierre). In hindsight, they would have done well to keep both eyes open and one of the twinsies right out of the sun with an eye to my feet not the face. In that, their folly, they lost me good and proper smack right back out to sea with too much blue before me to even consider yellow could stake a claim on the wheel. If my trunks had been orange, it would have been merely complementary, and the ocean would have blushed at such compliments from me.