It would be best if you didn’t go around thinking that my life has been easy. It has not. My trail never lined up easily in a straight path; I tried fitting in and often failed. In the same way that the worst job is the one of an honest man among thieves or the difficulties getting a circle inside a square, so were my attempts to fit in. In the end, I failed miserably. For all my failures, perhaps as a redemption, I found several important life lessons.
***
In the Jungle where I was born, survival is a daily struggle. It’s a zero-sum game. One must die so the next guy gets to feast. During my formative years, it was a constant reality around me. Our lives became a constant tribute to Darwin’s postulate: The survival of the fittest. The moment you roamed the prairies, either the Jungle swallowed you or you became her prisoner.
The limits of your universe were clear. Up, facing the sky, the trees canopy; down, the embrace of the ground, the mud, and the swamps. To the east, beyond your eyesight, one finds the expanse of the Serengeti, and to the west, the pearl necklace of the Jungle, the mighty river. The only way out was in captivity. Soon, you discover, after running for your life for the first time, that the only reason for your existence is survival. Your daily routine revolves around it. Eat to survive, run to survive, and hide to survive.
I soon discovered that based on their survival strategies, there were few types of creatures besides the Lions and other Alphas: the poisonous ones, the spiky ones, the inedible ones, and my kind, the ones that hide. Let’s call it the hideous ones.
Also, there you find that your “friends,” as close to you as you might have thought, soon start showing their predatory colors. Why?
In the Jungle, there’s only one guaranteed victim: the animal that shows fear. Or kindness. Both sentiments quickly become liabilities. In general, Animals are not particularly fearless or ruthless. Given that there’s only one Lyon and other secondary Alphas, most of us become, Oh well… Meals.
After a few life-threatening events, I understood that if I were to survive, I needed to protect my fragile and sensitive self. Thus, initially, I decided to hide. In my little hole, bored out of a gigantic Baobab tree, I hid for a few years and found company, love, and fraternity with an Owl and his books. They became my true, lifelong friends.
I read all the time because there was not much else to do. I imagined worlds where all the animals got along, and no one tried to devore you the moment they saw you. But that was not real life. No matter how nice the Owl was and how rich in wisdom his tomes were, I needed sunlight.
I was in a predicament. A decision had to be made.
It was either go outside and risk a brutal death or stay inside the tree and die a prolonged, suffocating death of inactivity, boredom, and isolation. For me, there was no more hiding. After all, the imaginary world of the books nourished my mind, not my stomach. I could not stand eating one more worm. I dreamt of feasting in the delicatessen of the Jungle and experiencing what the books called love and sex.
The Owl, my loyal friend, with a broken heart, tried dissuading me from leaving, exalting the benefits of the tree life, especially its solitude.
“Silence is the temple of the soul, where wisdom seeks refuge,” he said.
I listened to my beloved out of love, gratitude, and respect, but my mind was made up. I must leave the tree!
I was fully aware of all the dangers out there. I already knew. I often shriveled in fear each time our tree trembled at the road of the Lyon or the strikes of the rhinoceros. But I felt I had no choice. I was determined to take my chances and die a violent death rather than spend my life hidden in the darkness of a tree.
****
On my first day outside, the sun greeted me with a scorching salute, more destructive than welcoming. I soon learned that the mosquitos loved me, and the humidity always around us stiffened my fur into hard coils. I had to relearn to walk in the mud, careful not to step on a snake, poisonous frogs, and other indwellers. Inactivity rendered me flaccid. It was a miserable experience.
Determined because of my stubborn and crafty nature, I continued my march into the depths of the Jungle. On the horizon, I saw the Alpha, and promptly, I figured it was to my advantage to study and mimic their behaviors.
I inflated my chest, grew additional fur on my face, and practiced an intimidating frown. A menacing grimace was hard to come by, given my soft features. I rehearsed my growl and roar for several hours. Well, the roar, I decided to do without. I guess my thorax was not too developed and did not expand enough to come up with that heart-gripping roar of the Lion.
On the test date, with my obvious limitations, I took my chances. “Risk is the fuel of winners,” I said to myself. I approached the gathering of these large, menacing creatures, the Alphas. They were the second most common cause of death among us. The number one cause? The Jungle.
A few of these Alphas were majestic: larger, with upright, imposing, and regal stances; some were creepy, and most were vile. As it was their custom, they roamed the flat lands. They often circled each other, swinging their dicks, and suspiciously staring at each other while marking their territory. They were always on guard. Sometimes, there were fights, but mostly, they postured and growled at each other.
Deep down, these Alphas were as shrewd as they were menacing. They avoided fighting each other so as not to risk a certain death or disabling injury. They calculated it was better odd to chase small games, such as gracious, happy-go-lucky, and artistic Gazelles. They knew that Gazelles’ meat tasted better, given their vegetarian, organic diet.
After my calculated bet, I approached them with my newly acquired and well-honed skills. As soon as I joined them, they circled me in. It was their nature. They responded to their prey’s movement, but they sensed that something was not right. They started growling. I growled back at a higher pitch. They sniffed me out, not too close, because I smelled like rotten swampy mud. I saw that they were not convinced I was one of them. Their stares grew more intense. I was smaller than then, after all.
Guided by the mother of all inventions, necessity, I pulled my best performance. I growled, gave menacing looks, and frowned. I showed all my teeth. An award-winning performance. It worked! In the end, I think that they reasoned that even though I was smaller, and they could not smell me to verify my species, the ferocity I displayed -surely born out of fear- was such that I might have caused some serious damage to one of them, should they attack me. They let me in. I became an Alpha.
When you’re out in the Jungle, however, you must specialize in some set of hunting skills. Whether it be speed, brute force, or sheer aggression, you must have an edge. From the start, that became my shortcoming. I was too cerebral, not fast enough, or strong enough. Besides, I did not have the heart to kill another animal unless it was for self-defense.
I soon realized that the whole running around chasing faster animals in the heat of the day was not for me. It was too energy-consuming, and my heart was not in it. I was exhausted at the end of each day. Also, fighting water buffaloes and other large games was way too risky. Those beasts were massive and ill-tempered. And, finally, I was not going to attempt fighting Crocs, as some of the Alphas have done to their certain death.
I concluded that being an Alpha was not a good idea. Too much work!
Aha!. Shortly after I resigned from the Alphas’ crew, I had a eureka moment. From my previous residence inside the tree, I’ve seen the Chameleon’s act. They were super clever. They would neither confront the Alphas nor run away from them. They just disappeared right in front of their faces. In the end, they made a good living, got fed well, and did not need to fight. Just pretend. I was in.
I joined the Chameleon life.
I soon found out that a Chameleon’s life had its own set of problems. The presence of an Alpha required the Chameleon to spend long hours being static, turning green, brown, or yellow until the confused predator decided to leave.
On the worst days, if by coincidence the Alphas laid near you, it was a worse prison than being inside of my tree. You needed to wait still until the Alpha was done napping and sunbathing, then shake the damned camouflage color and rush and find a shade. I was fed up. I was beaten down by the Serengeti’s midday sun, and my skin was getting very irritated by the constant shifting of melanin. I was about to forget my proper skin color.
Something had to change.
I made then a rash decision and, luckily, did not get to regret it. I decided to turn into a Snake. They seemed cool and smooth; they would go out around as they pleased, up in the trees, in the river, inside of the mud, and best of all things, the Alphas did not seem to bother them. But my reptilian metamorphosis did not last long.
I soon found out that the Alphas were not the only ones who did not like Snakes. There was no one, I mean no one, in the entire Jungle who did not despise them. The snakes would not even hang out with each other. Without a doubt, the rest of the animals despised them. Also, I found the whole business of constantly sticking out your tongue repulsive.
Above all, being a snake was very lonely. For the few weeks that I tried being a snake, I was lonelier than when I was in my tree. I often would recoil to warm up and to keep myself company. I realized that the snake makeover was not for me. I was a friendly guy, after all. I needed contact with other creatures. I got rid of that snake custom.
*****
Soon after I’d forsaken the snake world, I had yet another idea. I recalled seeing the monkeys’ troop from my tree. They seemed very happy and always together—little monkeys, baby monkeys, old monkeys. They were like a big Italian family—like the ones I saw in magazines.
I decided without delay to learn the monkey’s ways. I grabbed my custom and started practicing the monkeying act. I started making weird vocal noises, screeching animatedly, and throwing things around. I learned to ambulate, swerving my body left and right while taking small hops. I jumped animatedly all over the place, always touching another monkey.
It was time to join a monkey troop. My monkey test was easy. The monkeys were very friendly and not too demanding. If I looked like them, sounded like them, and jumped around, it was good enough for them.
My tree-branch jumping skills, “branching,” were mediocre, but I got the job done. I had one selling point, though. From my weeks of snaking, I knew what trees to avoid. They did not know that. They were surprised by my knowledge, and it sealed the deal. I was in.
Wait! It got better.
I scored a cute monkey girl. At first, she seemed unimpressed. I had slightly different mannerisms and gestures and a different monkey accent. But when I spoke and she heard a foreign monkey accent, she fell under my spell. We soon married. We celebrated all night, jumping trees and throwing fruits.
My happiness knew no bounds. I had found a family, and my life finally made sense. I was no longer alone. My monkey wife and I had a few monkeys of our own. They were weird-looking—one might say ugly, given that I was from another species—but they were cuties, my pride and joy.
A few years later, all the animals gathered to celebrate the biggest day of the year: Earth Day. We celebrated the fact that we were able to live our lives away from humans, free from their devastation.
On this day in April, two big performers came to our side of the Jungle. The one looked like a bird, a Pelican, and almost identical to a human I have seen in magazines, named Taylor Swift or something like that. The other had a body shaped like a big pear and orangutan-colored hair. I have also seen her in a magazine.
Everyone was thrilled. All the hype worked wonders. It promised to be a bigger-than-usual celebration. All animals diligently headed for the venue. It was an all-out party.
We all gathered under a large canopy made of Baobab trees. The entrance was guarded by two massive gorillas and a couple of Bengal-looking tigers. For safety reasons and to ensure that we left the sacred ground after the party, we all needed to check at the Entrance any dangerous weapons, hazardous humor, claws, or valuable possessions.
To my surprise, everyone was mandated to leave their dicks at the entrance. And one by one, all animals did. It was a spectacle on its own given the wide variety of penises: Spiky Feline ones, lightning-bolt Rhinoceros ones, playful, puny Monkey ones, the memorable Elephant ones, the vagina-burning Bull’s ones, and the massive Horse’s dick, among others.
The party was in full swing. We monkeys were known as good dancers. We were killing it, jumping around. Jump, jump, jump! We raised the roof. The performers were good, too. We did not care that the Taylor Swift-looking one could not sing to save her life, and the other one was nothing but theatrics and an in-your-face, sassy attitude.
We were happy. It was the only not-kill day in the Jungle. We were able to dance next to our natural predators with absolute freedom. Even the worst predator on the planet, Men, did not hunt us for those twenty-four hours. It was a memorable yearly event. But,
All good things come to an end.
Suddenly, the canopy and all the trees started shaking. A rumble was felt miles away in the dark recesses of the Jungle. We were swerving. The music stopped. The screams and fallen branches overwhelmed the place. It was an earthquake.
Everyone rushed out the door. The Lion roared the loudest ever and ordered everyone to leave in an orderly fashion. Easier said than done. The animals trampled on each other. In their male vanity, at the expense of losing their lives, the male animals searched for their dicks. But in the commotion, many picked the wrong ones.
We, the monkeys, jumped on the tree branches quickly and got near the exit without major difficulties.
I was determined to exit immediately. Frankly, I did not think I was about to leave my dick behind. I jumped from branch to branch. Not my best skill. As I jumped near the exit, my wife hopped on my shoulders. Mid-air, she desperately pointed down to the ground near the trunk of the massive tree. Everyone was busy searching the ground.
“Get down…get down. Grab that one, grab it!” My wife said.
At first, I did not understand. I told her that I was getting the hell out and did not care. I did not see the need to stay there one more instant. She got furious.
“Grab that one!” she repeated with desperation in her voice.
I finally understood. I saw it. There lay a nearly eleven-inch monstrosity. My wife pointed at a horse’s dick. I did as she ordered me. So, we returned to the top of our tree with a horse’s dick, about the length of one of my legs.
For the next few days after the party, the massive anatomical piece proved too much for my monkey wife. We could not make it work. It was like the saying I had seen in a book: “The appetite is often bigger than the bite.”
In hindsight, months before Earth Day and the Earthquake, my wife was already fed up with me. She grew distant and often denied me sex. I understand now. She suspected all along that my penis was different and wondered if there was bigger and better out there. It did not matter if mine got the job done; in her female vanity, she wanted more. “Everything.”
Often, whenever we fought, I asked, frustrated, “What do you want, Hon?”, Her answer was always the same, “I want everything!”
Obviously, she tolerated me because I was a loving guy, loved our kids, and took the trash out. Above all, I did whatever she wanted. But she secretly dreamt of bigger and better things. Contrary to what she always told me on our scarce loving nights, size mattered after all.
The night of the Earthquake, all her suspicions were confirmed. My genitals were not the largest there were, as she always suspected. Thus, the moment she saw the horse’s dick, her imagination ran wild; she needed to have it. I did not know her as the vain and greedy type. In the end, the horse’s dick was the catalyst of our separation.
Soon, she filed her divorce claim with the Elder Council of the Monkeys’ Domestic Affairs. A divorce was granted on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. She kept full custody of our ugly-ass monkey children. Also, the Elders, out of vindictiveness, alleged that my presence would disturb the harmony of the monkey troop. I was soon deported from the colony.
******
Here I am, back to where I started.
By the time of my deportation, I had enough. I was fed up with all the changes I had tried and all the skills I learned. I had seen enough. After all my travels, impersonations, and the many survival gimmicks I devised, I landed back inside my old tree.
As in the old days, I am back inside my beloved tree. I’m consoled by my loyal friend, the Owl, his wisdom, and our books.
What’s the moral of the story?
P.R. Thompson.
May 31, 2024