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User Name Thread Name Subject Posted
GUEST,Skipy BS: Beer. (34) RE: BS: Beer. 24 Apr 05


The beer monkey: Fact or fiction?
The terrifying truth behind the myth
by Benson Hedges
For those of you who think you have never met the beer monkey, or know what an utter bastard he really is, then just cast your mind back to the last time you went drinking. When you awoke from a fitful night's sleep after the night before, did you get the feeling that your room had been rearranged? A feeling of slight disorientation may have ensued as you struggled to remember quite why your mountain bike was now parked unceremoniously halfway inside your wardrobe.

You would struggle in vain my friend, because it wasn't you who put it there. As you slowly sit upright in your bed, nursing that brain-melter of a headache, you may recall becoming aware of a very unpleasant taste in your mouth. Almost like... no! It couldn't be that?! Oh yes it is, oh yes siree!!

If you managed to make it to the bathroom before you peed yourself, you'd have undoubtedly had a nasty surprise when you looked in the mirror. How did your hair get to look so utterly crap? And where did all those spots come from? And wasn't it a good job you never pulled last night so whoever the lucky (?) person was didn't have to look in your toilet bowl and see quite the most disgusting collection of rancid turds imaginable. Are your guts really that bad?

Relax. The answers are coming.

Here is what actually happened: You arrived home at about a quarter past eleven at night feeling very good about yourself after a pleasant night out drinking with friends. You got merry but remained in complete control the whole time. Seconds after you handed the taxi driver a tenner and told him to keep the change, the beer monkey raced toward you from the darkness of your back garden. You had an instant gut feeling that something was terribly wrong, then WHAM! The beer monkey delivers a perfect neck chop and you fall to the ground, unconcious in seconds. He drags you back into your house, taking care to spread fag butts and half empty lager cans all over your next door neighbours' beautifully-presented garden masterpiece.

Once inside, he has you completely. As you lie dazed on the kitchen floor, the beer monkey powers up your hifi and plays your latest club anthem CD at full whack. As the walls pound from the relentless kick drums, he goes to work on your lounge, farting and smoking 20 Marlboro in as many minutes.

He crushes Kentucky Hot Wings into your sofa and raids your linen basket for the skiddiest pair of pants he can find then puts them under a cushion, ready to be discovered by whoever next sits in that chair. He drops some of your face moisturiser on the settee and lays a porno mag nearby to imply a late night chicken choker session.

You finally get to your knees, hearing all the commotion in your house, but before you can say "What the fuc*k ?" the beer monkey runs you over with your mountain bike, which you had been keeping in your spare room. After blatantly crashing your bike into your wardrobe, the beer monkey walks back into the kitchen and pins you down. He opens your fridge and forces you to drink seven cans of lager on the trot. He gives you a quick punch or two in the guts, and then drags you off to the bedroom, ruffling your hair all the way.

He then throws you down on the bed and starts throwing clothes everywhere. The next door neighbours are now banging on the wall from the pumping club music, so the beer monkey shouts a few obscenities, then turns off the hi-fi, making sure to set the timer so it goes off the same time the next night.

Feeling pretty pleased with his efforts by now, the beer monkey carries out his piece de resistance. He takes quite possibly the biggest shit ever in your bog, and instead of flushing it, he takes a small sample and rubs it around your gums as you lay there on your bed in a coma from the lager he gave you. Just one thing left now, he takes a bottle of cooking oil from your kitchen and pours it on your face and hair.

He bellows in triumph, drops a sickening fart, and then finally, at last, he leaves your house in search of his next, unsuspespecting victim.

So now you know just what the beer monkey is. He is a complete bastard. There's just one thing we forgot to mention. The beer monkey nearly always signals his approach by a noise which sounds uncannily like a football song being sung by drunks late at night.

Heard it lately?


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