The following is a recording of an interview between myself (Doctor Katrina Monroe) and the primate known as “Forbes.” We’ve given him a banana and a typewriter and seems to have calmed down from his earlier spat with Doctor Miller. She should know better than to call him a monkey to his face, but FUCK ME if I should dare tell her how to do her job. I swear to God, no one is less appreciated in this place than me. So, yeah, listen to this thing if you want. I’ll be over here reading Forbes’ book, NIGHTHAWKS AT THE MISSION.
Why are you such an ass?
I grew up on the streets of Chicago, picking blueberries in the spring and waving flags every fourth of July. People called me Shinebox, I used to make quarters off the big wigs in their blue suits coming off the train, shining their shoes, selling them loose cigarettes and hot sauce packets. I was happy then. But I woke up one day. I realized that when you die, that’s it, and nobody gives a damn of how good that basket of blueberries you picked ever was. I became a Communist at age 19, but there never again was any joy in my life other than the joy of screaming obscenities at children at Christmas, and letting the little bastards know that kids like them lost fingers and legs trying to put together their Iron Man action figures for nine cents a month.
*Anyone else got a craving for blueberry pancakes? No?*
No, really though.
Facebook is the longest joke about masturbation ever inflicted on the human race. Nothing can be taken seriously. I’m pointing out that fact every day. I’m a one man Facebook suicide machine. I’m the kamikaze of commentary.
*Note to self: disable Forbes’ Facebook. Watch the world crumble. Take over as the new Queen.*
Who do you like best, Hitler or Stalin?
Stalin won, Hitler lost, this isn’t a riddle. I’m a winner, I go with winners, I go with Stalinism, I go with the theory of socialism in one country and the aggravation of the class struggle under socialism and did I just blow your mind with real facts, you goddamn kulak witch?
*Careful with that banana. You wouldn’t want to choke to death in your sleep.*
Describe yourself in three words. NONE of these words can contain the letter “e.”
Fabulous, Fantastic, Wonderful.
*SHENANIGANS! Wonderful has an “e” in it, you illiterate fuck.*
When the aliens finally show up and enslave us all, what archaic, humanoid custom will they be unwilling to part with once all other customs are destroyed?
Shoving tires onto people and setting them aflame as a crowd watches. That never gets old.
*So when you called me last night and said you were burning rubber, you were serious?*
If you were an opera singer, what species of horn would adorn your helmet?
Crystal Pepsi bottles.
*He’s obviously getting tired. Someone grab the Taser; it’s nap time.*
Give me the—no you—fucking god dammit—give me the goddamned banana, Forbes! Jesus. Here, look at this picture. Tell me what you see. What? No, Dr. Miller isn’t coming up behind you with the shocky thing. Whatever gave you that idea?
THE PICTURE FORBES!! What do you see in the picture?
Looks like two werewolf heads in a ring of a salt ready to have a duel with their teeth.
*It’s obviously an eye, you freak. Nighty-night time for you.*