I am talking ofcourse about my Stretchy Monkey that I so loved to play with. It was a monkey. It stretched. Truly that is all I need in life for it amused me for many hours.
Little did I know that my wife, not enjoying the fact that I was making it's little stretchy monkey hands grab her ass, would clutch his little stretchy arm between her hardened human fingers and yank it off of him in a fit of wifey rage.
I just stood there and watched as the little styrofoam beads silently rained from the hole in his now gaping shoulder hole. She... standing there holding his little motionless stretchy arm. It looked silent, alone, grotesque -- like something out of a horror movie if a horror movie was centered on the dismemberment of stretchy animals toys that had the likeness of retarded Capuchin monkeys.
I tried... GOD... how I tried EVERYTHING in my power to repair him. I even used Gorilla Glue on it, hoping that the glue would not notice that this was not an ape at all. Unfortunately, I was too late. To many beads had sifted away and I had to let him go.
So adieu, sweet stretchy primate.
On a HAPPY note, my wife saw how sad I was and promised to buy me another stretchy monkey to replace him. I have learned my lesson... NEXT time I grab my wife's ass with a little stretchy monkey, I have to make sure to be quick enough to get it away from her when she snaps at it like a crocodile.
99.72% of men love monkeys and would love own and befriend one. The other .28% of men already OWN monkeys and are the happiest men in the world.