Monkeys. You'll probably never know (I think 'never' should be spelt with a 'k'... 'knever') how horrible monkeys can be. In fact, it was just last week, I believe, when I was brutally and/or gruesomely attacked by one of the little blighters. I'll tell you the story, if you'll hear it. Which, of course, you won't - unless you have some nifty read-the-text-off-the-screen-to-me program or slave.

I was just walking down the street, minding my own business, when my friend Billy came up to me. "Tom," he says - and he's looking very flabbergasted at this point - "Do you want to come down to the shops? I'm going to buy some stuff."
"I'm fine," I say to him - wondering, of course, why he's flabbergasted about going to the shops.
"Yes, I'm sure you're fine. But do you or don't you want to come down to the shops?"
"Oh, the shops?" I say, flabbergasted. "Sure."
We began the long and treacherous walk down to the shops. On the way we purchase (should be pronounced with the emphasis on the "chase", not the "pur" - much more fun) some roller skate-like things, in fact, they probably actually could have been roller skates.
After the roller skates had been purchased (purCHASED - hey, chased sounds like chaste) we rolled the rest of the way down the hill to the shops, dodging an old lady and her dog half way. She called "Hey, get off the sidewalk!" at us - I, of course, retaliated with "Hey, get off the road!"

So, Billy stopped rolling before I did (which he gloated about for some time afterwards, even though I felt that my argument that crashing into a rosebush was cheating was a particularly good one) and we walked the rest of the way - only a few metres - to the shops.
"Hey, Billy, what shop are you going to?" I asked him, flabbergasted.
"Bakery," he replied, flabbergasted as to why I was flabbergasted.
"Ah," I replied. At this point I felt the flabbergasting had gone way too far, so I stopped being flabbergasted immediately.
We went into the bakery.
As Billy was buying some Kaiser rolls (and he bought a dozen and only got twelve, what's with that? At a bakery you're supposed to get thirteen. Billy says it's because they're old and German, but I said hey, my grandmother's old and German so I punched him into the kidneys) the Bakery Monkey jumped down from off the Sesame Seed Buns and brutally clawed on my scalp.

So that's my story.