Monk Went Crazy So They Put Him On Plexitoxicane
But He Couldn’t Stop Swearing At Children

Monk stuck his head in a Bob Dole Elementary School window while 22 eight year
olds watched a video on crosswalk safety. He poked his head in and shrieked at the
children, calling them all, ‘PISS GUZZLING SHITS ON PARADE’.

Then it was kids on bikes, teenagers driving their daddy’s car.

Kids eating ice cream, skating, or simply sitting in a sandbox, were thrown into fits
or off their contraptions at his cruel exclamations. He just couldn’t stop.

At the pre-mature birth of his sister’s firstborn, he looked at the limp and tiny
preemie they all thought was doomed, bent down, gave it a gentle kiss on the cheek,
then screamed at the top of his lungs, “WAKE UP YOU LOOSELY DIAPERED GALL BLADDER!”
and the baby jumped to life, flailing its little IV’s around.

Amazingly, Baby Petunia crawled away and cowered into the far corner of an
incubator, shivering, but alive. While pleased with the result, his sister had Monk
committed for a second time. When they let him out, they put him on Plexitoxicane.


He seemed okay for a while, but Plexitoxicane II caused side effects as well.

His blue eyes crossed and turned gray. Blonde hair curled green, grew wildly in a
matter of days. The skin on his face tightened to such an extreme, it caused his
tongue to stick out ironing board flat.

Monk had a constant erection and ejaculated into his pants 4 or 5 times an hour.
He’d twitch and roll his eyes back, mumbling passages from Catcher in the Rye.

Strangely, Monk also became a serial kicker. He couldn’t stop himself from walking
around town with a bonny schnitzel, squirting seminal fluid through his soiled
pants, and kicking people in the ass. He dressed in work clothes and construction
boots just to keep it all inside.

Ironically, since it was a small town, no one kicked his ass, for him kicking them
in the ass. Monk’s just crazy, they thought. It’s not malicious; it’s a disease. It
didn’t take them long to get used to it.

Besides, Monk enjoyed kicking people in the ass. There was so much more to it than
swearing at toddlers. One bellowing, “SUCK SHAVED GOAT HEAD KATZENJAMMER",
and a kid would reliably burst into tears. It was too easy.

Monk kept a handy ‘To Kick’ list, next to his medication, and while he waited for
his dosage to take effect, he would add to the list each day's excursions.

“Kick Cop, kick Lawyer, Ex-wife’s Lawyer, Kick Ex-wife, The Bitch at the Bank, Kick
Elmer, Betty and their four MISCREANT FROGSPAWN MOPPETS!”

In time, the town’s folk grew to love the new Monk. He became a mascot of sorts, and
they had to admit, they liked being kicked in the ass almost as much as Monk liked
doing it. It freshened things up, and in a way, kind of turned them on.

They would even call Monk whenever a stranger came to town, and he would go kick the
tourist in the ass all the way to the county line. When he returned, they’d buy him
a steak—and bend over.

Every time Monk raised his sperm stained steel-tip construction boots to ass-plant
some toes, he felt good. Monk had found inner peace. And he had Plexitoxicane, to
thank for it.

If it helped one man come to terms with himself, one town come to grips with their
S&M perversions, saved one baby’s life, and kept the ice cream on the cone where
it belonged, what more could you hope for?

John Dooley is a poet and freelance writer living in Arcata, California.

© 2005 Underground Voices