— Fiction —

Resignation Letter from an Organ Grinder's Monkey

Giuseppe,

We’ve had lots of fun these past three years at the Corner Mall. Remember when I set your hair on fire? How about that time I gave you Hepatitis C? So much shared history to treasure.

It’s not that I want to leave. But I’ve been offered an opportunity to travel and to grow creatively—in the reformed lineup of Genesis. It was me or Rick Wakeman. I got the gig because I can play with my hands and feet. He can too, actually, but I use both pairs simultaneously, hanging from the highhat by my tail. Sure, the only song I know is “Pop Goes the Weasel,” but they don’t know that. (Too bad it isn’t the Monkees, eh? Dear, dear Giuseppe—how I’ll miss your drunken laughter!)

Fear not, Koko’s ready to take my place. As long as he remembers to wear his diaper and take his Thorazine, everything will be just fine.

Hey, full disclosure: I ate your pants last week. There wasn’t any gang of kids sniffing glue. You fell asleep, I ate your pants. ’Nuff said.

As far as working for peanuts—or quipping that at least you’ll finally have me off your back—well, those are old and obvious jokes I’d just as soon avoid. My last day will be Dec. 15. Let’s do lunch at the Hogie Bar. There’s a new waiter there I’m just dying to bite on the ass.

Sincerely,
Mister Muggs