MONKEYS!

BONOBOS!

BABOONS!

SPIDER MONKEYS!

GIBBONS!

SIAMANGS!

CHIMPANZEES!

GORILLAS!

HOWLER MONKEYS!

This is about conquering fears, people.
Believe it or not, monkeys actually scare the fucking shit out of me.

The Real Meaning of Real Estate, by Hans of Hans und Klaus

"Character Space" - This one is often seen in historic buildings or houses. The name brings up imagery of a colourful "arty" sophisticated, classic chic living or working space. In reality, Character Space is a euphemism for "Shithole." Some concepts I associate with Character Space are:
-Old World Class: no hot water or insulation
-Natural Indoor-Outdoor Flow: Leaky walls and ceiling - prepare your buckets
-Refurbished: the mold and mildew, cracks in walls, and spiders' webs were painted over
-Homely: not designed for a population of normal sized humans. More designed for a population of pygmies; possibly morlocks.

Count on it, whatever can go wrong in a property there's a euphemism to sell it. To make you want it that way. And such euphemism-swathed properties are never hard to find. So what do you do? You, poor, beguiled consumer, fall for a homely refurbished Art Deco character space with old world class, natural indoor-outdoor flow that's a real fixer-upper. Yes, that's real customer power right there.

Adventures II: Time Travel Edition

You are a sandwich in a boat floating down a river in Venice. It is 1776 and in your possession is a pen and a trophy for Best Topiary Sculpture that you won when you were a hedge-clipping robot in the year 2586. As you go through the tunnel you consider what it would have been like to be a keyboard in the 1980s that has an affinity with carrier pigeons. However, when you emerge from the tunnel, it is 1992 and you are a skateboard with the ability to smell things from a very long distance. This is somewhat inconvenient for you as you have been well used and smell a bit like dog crap, old chewing gum, tequila and breastmilk. As you slowly transform into a magnifying glass with a penchant for pottery, you realise that you still have a wheel attached. Thankfully it is the one with tequila on it. You have gone from having a superior sense of smell to superior vision, and you can see that you are now in the year 1962 and you are being used by a DeadHead to see the lice in a fellow DeadHead's hair. The sight of this lice (and the music in the background) repulses you and you spontaneously morph into Michael Jackson's nose circa 2002. You've fallen off twice and damnit you're going to succeed again. The moment for your claim to fame has come. He is emerging from the hotel room. He is approaching the balcony. Now is your moment. You are about to fall into the arms of your adoring public but WAIT. He has unravelled the child from the blanket and is dangling it from the railing. That wasn't part of the plan - that wasn't part. Your moment of fame, so fleeting and perfectly timed, has been stolen by this flailing infant. You can only do one thing. You do what you always do. You malfunction and cause excessive mucous to run down Michael Jackson's face, making it appear shiny and viscous in tomorrow's papers.

Family: A contribution by Hans of Hans und Klaus.

Family holiday = a trip to someplace an hour out of town for bland as fuck "activities"

Family fun = boring as shit

Family orientated = fun if you are two years old

Family values = hypocritical crock of bullshit and backwards conservativist uptight prickishness

Family restaurant = a place filled with children screaming and running around and vomiting and priggish complacent parents

Family pass = don't go anywhere that offers them because that means there will be annoying kids

Family planning = good fucking idea