This Shit is BANANAS!

Whew!

The time is now 4:19pm and, boy, am I beat! I’ve been working so non stop that I haven’t even had time to check the latest tweets or go to the bathroom, y'all.

The day started off STRONG AND WRONG, with an email from a higher-up that was full of attitude. He flagged the message as “HIGHEST PRIORITY!!!!” and the body text included such gems as “yes I DO need to see the proofs and I CANNOT WAIT” in capital letters and bold font, like I'm some baby monkey who should cower before him. When I forwarded the letter to the massa, just to keep him in the loop (you know I can hold my own, y’all) and included my thoughts on the condescension, boss man replied to my e-mail and cc'd the other dude, leaving my harsh words for him to see! Massa then gets mad at me when I call him out, saying, "You gotta delete trails, come on, what do you want from me?!"
Um, what I want is for you to think before you email. It's up to him as the sender to delete the trail, not me.
The condescending man allegedly said he would call me and apologize, but that was 6 hours ago, so I doubt it. I’ve been busting my butt trying to get this article done all day long, y'all-- all I’ve had is a banana and a protein bar since breakfast—which, if you know a blacktress’s appetite, is saying something.

Speaking of bananas and being treated like a monkey, I wanted to share the following NYTimes.com article I received from The Lonesome Lumberjack:
Woman Goes To VA Court With Tiny Monkey in Bra. Talk about Victoria’s SECRET, y’all!!!

The woman tells the newspaper she bought the animal on an online auction site and had its clothes specially made in West Virginia.

Y’all, what is up with this monkey shit?! If you recall from Friday’s post, Virginia is the same place Justine flew to to purchase her MONKID on the hard-hitting expose “My Child Is A Monkey”. Is this state the head of an underground monkey-breeding ring? I’ve decided VA needs a new t-shirt:

I Feel Like Lady Gaga

Let me explain.

So, last year LG did a concert at Madison Square Garden, and one of her many magical grotesque diva moments involved her pretending she’s Tinkerbell—ugh, there’s no way I can describe a GAGA moment. Roll the tape (start at :30):

I never thought I’d say this, but I totally get where she’s coming from. I NEED THE BLOG!!!!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT THE FORUM FOR EXPRESSING MY INANITY!!!!

My dearest blog darlings, how I’ve missed you (or, I guess, missed myself writing to you?)!!! I’m blogging to you now with one hand after having minor surgery on my left wrist on Monday. It was local anesthesia, and I was out in 15 minutes, but having three needles poked into your hand as a burly, ethnically ambiguous doctor asks, “Are you gonna pass out?” isn’t exactly a party on fountain. I’m on the mend, but have been trying not to aggravate it, which means I’m hunting and pecking on the keyboard like the keyboardist in Flock of Seagulls. As if I wasn’t bored enough on the plantation, it’s taking me thrice* as long to do everything! It’s really put a cramp in my bloggery, and there’s really so much to share.

Let me begin with the information that I’ve been bursting to share since Tuesday.
Monday night, when I was hepped up on painkillers and realizing I’d poorly planned this surgery, I decided to console myself with a documentary on genetic anomalies, which you know that always brightens my spirits. I turned on the boob tube just in time to catch “My Child is a Monkey”—score! I tucked in, expecting to learn about a Mogley-esque child who learned the bare necessities in a third-world country (I swear, the anomalies are almost always in the third world) and drift of too sleep with the knowledge that things weren’t so bad in my one-handed world.

My dear readers, what I witnessed on my television screen was more terrifying than any episode of “born without a face” or “to catch a predator” and a hotter mess than all three seasons of Teen Mom. The documentary wasn’t about children raised by animals or children with some sort of animal feature—it was about White women who adopt monkeys and raise them as children!!!

No, these women aren’t Michael Jackson-level wealthy. These chimps do not walk the red carpet with Brooke Shields. These are regular-ass middle aged members of Caucasia (yes, I said it!) who spend thousands of dollars on an animal that should not be domesticated, plucking it from its mother just days after birth only to put it in a diaper and stick it in a cage for the rest of its life—which can be upwards of 40 years.

Why would people do this? Why is this an actual acceptable business? Do you think it’s because slavery’s now illegal and Caucasians love to cage something? (not you, my readers—but you know some of your people are a hot mess!) As a leathery-skinned middle-aged British woman rode to a Capuchin monkey breeder in Virginia, she talked about how nervous and excited she was, and I’ve never wanted to punch my television set more. As that cute little monkey clung to the stuffed animal they’d put him on (no doubt to make him appear more infant-like), I felt like a misspent youth in a movie theater watching a horror flick. “RUN, RUN, MONKEY!!! THAT WHITE LADY COMIN FO’ YO’ ASS!!!” I screamed. As she and the breeder laugh at the fact that the monkeys know their babies will be taken and the woman hands over $5,500 in cash (in this economy?!), I was about ready to cut a bitch.

Y’all, I can’t do it justice. Here’s a clip (the British woman starts at 8:50):

She named her monkey George. How tacky.
I feel like even the narrator is judging—can’t you hear it in her voice?

It was when we cut to “Monkey Whisperer” Lisa, who helps domesticate the monkeys (called ‘monKIDS’—yes, y’all!) that I almost had a stroke. As Lisa exited the airport with her monkey on her back, I wished it was metaphorical. Two passersby stopped to coo at the animal. “Is he your pet?” one of the girls asked. “No, he’s not my pet, he’s my partner for life,” said Lisa.

OH HELL TO THE NO! Partner for life?! What kind of partner requires you to wipe their ass for the next 40 years? If that’s love, I’d like to pass right now. And Lisa’s just rubbing the monkey’s butt, trying to make it callous so that he gets used to diapers, and has the nerve to say, “It’s not cruel what we’re doing. The mothers jump with them on their back from tree to tree.”
Um, you’re not a monkey mom, you’re a random lady with monster claws trying to harden up his butt.

Y’all, this is like Losing Isaiah x 100.


Okay, y’all, there’s even more to report, but it’s taken me over an hour to write this and I’m sure your eyes have glazed over (or you’re now watching every Lady Gaga YouTube clip you can find). I’ll fill you in on the latest mama drama and the one-year anniversary of Blacktress and Jewboo later!!!

Glad I'm not a Monkey Mom!
-Blacktress


*can we make that word? Let’s get Merriam Webster on the horn.