You haven’t finished your ape, said mother to father, who had
monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.
I’ve had enough monkey, cried father.
You didn’t eat the hands, and I went to all the trouble to make onion
rings for its fingers, said mother.
I’ll just nibble on its forehead, and then I’ve had enough, said father.
I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said mother.
Why don’t you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay the whole
thing on the table every night; the same fractured skull, the same
singed fur; like someone who died horribly. These aren’t dinners,
these are post-mortem dissections.
Try a piece of its gum, I’ve stuffed its mouth with bread, said mother.
Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit. How can I bite into its cheek
with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.
Break one of the ears off, they’re so crispy, said mother.
I wish to hell you’d put underpants on these apes; even a jockstrap,
Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything more
than simple meat, screamed mother.
Well what’s with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates? screamed
Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature? That I
would submit my female opening to this brute? That after we had
love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after breaking
his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband, that
my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity . . . ?
I’m just saying that I’m damn sick of ape every night, cried father.
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