I have two monkeys living inside my brain. My monkeys tell me what to do. Well, they don’t actually tell me what to do; they’re more in advisory roles. They’re kinda like my speech writers. Think of it like I have been elected Mitchell For Life and my chief of staff (a lemming that lives in my duodenum – a whole different story that we’ll save for another time) has recognized my inherent ability to shit the bed, figuratively of course, and has assigned two monkeys to be my public relations guys.
And they live in my head.
They’re crammed in there with all sorts of useless drivel like phone numbers for people I don’t talk to anymore, historical dates, the starting D of the ’85 Bears and what a ‘duodenum’ is. Strange place, I know.
Anyhow, these monkeys try to keep me out of trouble by guiding me to the right decisions. They’re basically dictating my life but in such a way that I feel like I am in charge and doing the choosing. Think ‘American voter’. My monkeys are a lot like the old angel/devil archetype from cartoons that appears on the protagonist’s shoulder and serves as his conscience.
But they’re monkeys. And they live in my head.
One is a gentle thinker. He rationally considers situations and determines the wisest course of action that benefits all concerned. He is always calm, often slow to speak and sounds a lot like Mr. Peabody from the old Bullwinkle and Rocky Show. The Thinker gives me great advice.
The other one screams a lot and tends to throw shit.
Being something of a realist, I don’t blame him. They scare the pants off of me sometimes and I’ve got a couple of feet on both of ‘em. That doesn’t soften the blow from the realization that I am left only with the Shit Chucker to talk me back from the edge when things get messy, though.
I could use a little reason, a little patience, a little quiet reflection when my miniature dictators start the interrogations. No dice. When the pressure and the volume go up, the Thinker bails out faster than…well, the fastest bailing-out thing you can think of.
He has always served me relatively well in the past, at least when he has been sober. Now I see, though, he clearly wasn’t cut out for an advisory position to a stay-at-home dad. I guess the lemming didn’t foresee this career move for our organization and adjust the monkey screening process accordingly.
Hell, who did?
He’s still quite helpful after the battlefield has cleared, I must admit. He always has constructive ideas as to how situations could’ve been handled better, where I may have over-talked certain points, how a less furrowed brow could’ve proved assistive – sometimes even with graphs and PowerPoint presentations. He’s very organized. An enormous wuss, but very organized.
I guess I just have to play the monkeys I was dealt. And maybe the Shit Chucker isn’t such a bad ally to have in this profession.
Fire with fire, right?