Let's make one thing clear from the get-go. I don't blame Sandy. I’m like: It’s cool. When the heat was on, the easiest thing in the world to do was to throw me under the bus. Just blame it on the chimp. Heard they froze her assets this week anyway--Ouch! The paparazzi? and the shills from the MSM? They were like: Mad Monkey Attacks! Who's going to listen to me anyway? I'm just a goddamn primate. I was like: How about MY side of the story. Wasn't it enough that I wore a stupid diaper and had to water that brown dandelion patch they called a lawn? Wasn't it enough that I had to listen to Mistress Sandra snore all night? You think putting up with her lame friends was easy? Think again, my friend. Bet you read in the papers that she gave me wine to drink. Brother, we're not talking Kendall-Jackson or Sonoma-Cutrer. Hell, we're not even talking Gallo or Manishewitz. Think Thunderbird or Mad Dog. Now you're catching on. Sometimes enough IS enough! Tough luck that my pal Roscoe took the hit. I was like: Don’t open the car door, man--Barney Fife has his one bullet loaded! Oh well…such is life. It was rough for a few months, especially in that room they stuck me in below the garage. Nothing like my old crib. The food (if that's what you can call it) really sucked. Of course, I did lose a few pounds- which should help me with the ladies...but that’s another story altogether. Anyway, now that all the commotion’s died down, I'm like exploring my options. Thinking about the talk show circuit. No worries-I’ll survive. Peace, baby.
T
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