Mickey the Monkey.


It was a dark fall night in uptown New Orleans. A friend of mine called me up. “Do you want to see a monkey?” he asked. There is no way you can turn down an offer like that. “It’s 10 pm on a Thursday! The zoo is closed,” I responded.

We ended up on the West Bank, at his girlfriend’s parents’ house. While chilling in the living room, out sauntered Mickey the Monkey. The family had found Mickey while on vacation in Lebanon. Mickey’s family would squeak and Mickey would squeak back at them. Clad in a diaper, Mickey would excitedly walk around the house.

We had some sushi for dinner. Mickey jumped onto my head and swiped a California roll out of my hand. It was yet another strange night in NOLA. Mickey the Monkey was not monkeying around.

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