Dance, Monkeys, Dance
by Ernest Cline
Orbiting the sun at about 98 million miles
is a little blue planet
and this planet is run
by a bunch of monkeys.
Now, the monkeys don't think of
themselves as monkeys.
They don't even think of themselves as animals
And they love to list all the things
that they think
separate them from the animals:
Opposable thumbs, self awareness . . .
They'll use words like
Homo Erectus and Australopithecus.
You say Toe-mate-o,
I say Toe-motto.
They're animals all right.
Monkeys with high-speed digital fiber optic technology,
but monkeys nevertheless.
I mean, they're clever.
You've got to give them that.
The Pyramids, skyscrapers, phantom jets,
the Great Wall of China.
That's some pretty impressive shit . . .
for a bunch of monkeys.
Monkeys whose brains have evolved
to such an unmanageable size
that it's now pretty much impossible
for them stay happy for any length of time
In fact, they're the only animals
that think they're supposed to be happy.
All of the other animals can just be.
But it's not that simple for the monkeys.
You see, the monkeys are cursed with consciousness
and so the monkeys are afraid.
So the monkeys worry.
The monkeys worry about everything,
but mostly about what all the other monkeys think.
Because the monkeys desperately want to fit in
with the other monkeys.
Which is hard to do,
because a lot of the monkeys seem to hate each other.
This is what really separates them from the other animals.
These monkeys hate.
They hate monkeys that are different.
Monkeys from different places,
monkeys who are a different color-
You see, the monkeys feel alone.
All six billion of them.
Some of the monkeys pay another monkey
to listen to their problems.
Because the monkeys want answers
and the monkeys don't want to die.
So the monkeys make up gods
and then they worship them.
Then the monkeys argue
over whose made-up god is better.
Then the monkeys get really pissed off
and this is usually when the monkeys decide
that it's a good time to start killing each other.
So the monkeys wage war.
The monkeys make hydrogen bombs.
The monkeys have got their whole fucking planet
wired up to explode.
The monkeys just can't help it.
Some of the monkeys play to a sold out crowd . . .
of other monkeys.
The monkeys make trophies
and then they give them to each other.
Like it means something.
Some of the monkeys think
that they have it all worked out.
Some of the monkeys read Nietzsche
The monkeys argue about Nietzsche
without giving any consideration to the fact
was just another fucking monkey.
The monkeys make plans.
The monkeys fall in love.
The monkeys fuck
and then they make more monkeys.
The monkeys make music
and then the monkeys DANCE
Dance, monkeys, dance.
The monkeys make a hell of a lot of noise.
And when he's done,
five other randomly selected monkeys
will rate this monkey's noises
on a scale from one to ten.
And at the end of the night,
they add all the numbers up
to see which monkey made the best noises.
As you can see . . .
these are some fucked up monkeys.
These monkeys are at once the ugliest
and most beautiful creatures on the planet.
And the monkeys don't want to be monkeys.
They want to be something else.
But they're not.
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Sé buena persona y por favor no castigues mis marchitas neuronas con otra escritura que no sea la respetuosa con la puntuación y la ortografía, el censor que llevo dentro te lo recompensará continuando dormido.