There’s been some monkey business in Tacoma.

It was a cold and rainy Monday morning. I’m tootin’ along, la la la, at the start of my workday.

The I spot a sight along the side of the road.

Now there's something you don’t see every day.

So I pull over a block away and with cell phone trot on over, dodging light rain pellets.

Someone’s been monkeying around on Yakima Street.

The guy’s suited in his finest black velveteen. Perhaps he's returning from the midnight ball.

He’s wearing snaps on his fingers:

and bells snaps on his toes:

and his tail too:

He's so limber and lithe, why he's crashed out on a windshield is anyone's guess.

He's the Mona Lisa of monkeys; wherever you move, his eyes follow.

And with his inked-on brows and smashing ‘stache, he’s Marcel, I do declare. MonaMarcel.

Ciao, MonaMarcel.

By the way, MonaMarcel, a chuckle for you in return for the chuckle you brought: What do you call a monkey in a garden? A plant manager!

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