A Zebra Walks Into a Bar...

I trot up to the watering hole and order a shot.  I need something to bring my heart, bring my mind back to life; I need something colorful. I salute the bartender—, a monkey who’s been in the circus and knows what I need before I have a chance to set my right hoof on the toe kick.  It grounds me, knowing that brass rod is stable and fixed to something sturdy. Glad that it's reliable.  

The monkey slides a shot glass my way.  I like its layers of colors—, a fitting shot, and I nay while I bring my head up.  Then, the solution hits the back of my tongue, and I make an uncharacteristically loud charging sound.  I can't help but to swing my muzzle from side to side with such voracity that any loose moisture from the shot or my saliva release and splay across the mahogany bar. Embarrassing. All of the peacocks are staring. I’ve startled them. They’ve got their tail feathers up and all spread out.

“Go on. That’s why you’re here,” the monkey encourages, and the bar keep— a llama, of course—winks with approval. 

I’m grateful to the chap, but I wouldn’t ever date a monkey.  They keep the world going—with their various services—but they’re unpredictable and only as attractive as a canvas bag.  Canvas bags are good.  I needed one in college. Function is about all you'll get.  Llamas can have ‘em. 

Wouldn’t date a llama either.  Who wants to always be waiting for them to check in and tell you what crazy ass thing they brought back from their daydreams?  It’s like dating someone on ‘shrooms. Shrooms for breakfast; shrooms for lunch; shrooms for a midnight snack.  Llamas would starve to death without monkeys.  But—, I guess we all would.

I love me some peacocks. God knows I do, but I gotta be careful. Peacocks kill me every time.