NEWS ITEM--REUTERS: "The fugitive baboon of central New Jersey was captured on Saturday after she was spotted sitting on a fence post on a farm in Howell Township.A crew from nearby Six Flags Great Adventure park, located in adjacent Jackson Township, arrived at the farm on Fairfield Road, and used a tranquilizer dart from a gun to put her to sleep, and return her to the 350-acre wild safari exhibit there."
As the ongoing investigation continues into exactly how an adventurous baboon managed to escape from an animal amusement park in Jackson Township, worried New Jersey homeowners have begun questioning the performance of their public safety agencies, and whether a conflict of interest cover up is at hand.
In the midst of this simmering controversy, investigators at KIELBASABLOG, working with the legal representatives of the baboon’s family, have obtained an exclusive copy of a journal kept by the baboon in the days leading up to and including her escape and recapature. This stunning document, the first known document written by a baboon, (using of all things, a first edition IPad), sheds a revealing light on this extraordinary episode of man vs. monkey.
The following passages are excerpts. In most cases, names have been changed to protect the identities of the parties involved. The entries begin on June 24th...the words are the baboon’s...
6/24/11
The sun goes down and the gloom settles upon me. Another night in hell. Everywhere I look I see nothing staring back at me but slack jaws, empty stares, and hairy, lice covered, simple minded lifeforms chewing with their mouths open and touching themselves inappropriately. And those are just the tourists. Inside the enclosure, it gets even worse, once you factor in the gang rivalries. the predatory lenders, and the total lack of hand sanitizer.
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this, but it must have been horrific. I look through the bars and I see the promised land...the land of milk and honey...
...suburban New Jersey.
6/25/11
Morning. The sunrise brings new hope, hope that is quickly dashed. Lamont, my keeper, is up to his cruel tricks once again. Ever the practical joker he has mixed a full bottle of ground up Cialis tablets in with our breakfast fruit, and now half of us are walking around with huge erections, including several of the females. (What’s up with that?)
Making things worse, a busload of 6th graders has arrived and is roaming the park unchecked. These are not Cub Scouts. In fact most of them have tattoos. It is not clear if they are part of an official field trip or if they are a rogue band of street thug scouting enthusiasts who have hijacked a bus. Naturally they ignore all the other residents and focus their mockery exclusively on us. One even flings his feces at us, acting out an unfortunate stereotype that is endlessly reinforced in the mainstream media.
Who even does that anymore?
It’s all so undignified.
6/26/11
I am sitting in a tree, smoking a Salem, staring at plane, hoping it will crash. I am bored.
A breeze picks up, blowing in from the distant Jersey swamps, scenting the air with fetid wisps of rotting trash, My Sin, low tide, and presumably, mob hits long past. My mood improves.
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I see a shiny piece of colorful cardboard flitting across the enclosure towards my feet. To my amazement I realize it is an unused scratch ticket. I wipe the fecal matter from my fingers and scratch.
I’m a winner. I just banged the NJ State Lottery for 50 large. Yeah, baby...
This is my chance!
6/27/11
$50,000 goes a long way in this joint.
Shortly after midnight, Mitchell, the embittered and under-appreciated assistant to Lamont, swings open the gates and gestures me to a waiting cab. I’m wearing a fake mustache, brand new cargo shorts, bowling shirt, and snap brim fedora from the Gap. I look good, although I worry that stripes make me look a little heavy. Up till now all my dealings with Mitchell have been peanuts, literally, and a lot of other penny-ante stuff...bootleg cigarettes...splits of chardonnay...a little weed. But this time he has scored big. He gets the scratch ticket. I get $700 cash...and freedom!
He is all smiles, and as I head out I give him a silent thumbs up. In return he mimes a flinging gesture.
What an asshole.
6/28/11
I awaken in a fog. Last night is a blur. All I know is that I am in a motel somewhere near a highway, all my money is gone, and I smell like fish. Looks like the party is over. Time for plan B.
I search the room for any other clues but turn up nothing to show except a $5 bill, my IPad, an empty tube of KY Jelly and a lingering sense of shame.
I head for the woods. As I pass through the parking lot I spot an unlocked Kia and search it looking for food. I find nothing more edible than a pack of Dentyne. I take the GPS, but then remember that I am a baboon and have no idea of how to use it. I eat half of the display screen then decide that without salt, it is not worth the effort.
I am starving and I spend the next fifteen hours wandering the forest trying to establish a relationship with the indigenous woodland fauna. For the most part they ignore me. Not even eye contact. Finally a skunk approaches me and asks me if I want to party. I demur, but do manage to get directions to a nearby dumpster. I spend the next hours going through discarded styrofoam take out boxes feasting on blobs of ketchup and all the cole slaw I can handle. Nobody ever eats the cole slaw.
Eventually, I nod off.
6/29/11
The morning is rough and I now understand why nobody eats the cole slaw. Even the skunk is keeping it’s distance. I don’t want to ever go through anything like that again.
These are desperate times and I decide it is time to start taking chances.
Through the woods I can see a neighborhood of houses. I can hear children playing. I can see a lot of red cedar mulch and sprinklers. I can see a Prius. I can smell cold Weber grills.
I move forward.
As I maneuver through the backyards I am assaulted with the awareness that with what’s available to me here I can eat as much as I want, as long as I want, as long as I’m willing to eat crabgrass and coleslaw and slow moving dog. I make my way behind a split level ranch, over a fence, and set my sites on a motionless shitzu splayed out before a bowl of dry kibble. It is either sleeping or having a stroke. In either case, the advantage is mine. I creep towards my target.
Suddenly....... SHIT! A HUMAN! I’VE BEEN SPOTTED! There is screaming. It’s a female in her mid-fifties. She is somewhat obese and wearing nothing but an unbuttoned flowered house coat. I’m the one screaming. She pulls out a 9mm Glock and starts firing. I’ve forgotten I was in New Jersey. Everybody’s armed. A stray round hits the shitzu and suddenly I understand why it hasn’t been moving. It was already wounded. What the hell is the deal with this place? What goes on here???
I grab a handful of Beneful and jump over the fence and start running. Next thing I know I am in a rest area on the Garden State Parkway. I peer into a parked car.
I’ll never do that again.
My psyche scarred, I race across the roadway and cars are screeching to a halt. I’ve been spotted again. More screaming, more shots. This is all getting out of hand. I jump on the bumper of a passing minivan and hold on for dear life.
Down the road I dare to look up. A news copter is circling. I’ve spent enough time watching truTV to know this is going to turn out bad. At Exit 11 I leap on to a passing bus. A good move.
Cops are everywhere, but, thank God, the world is blind to Fung Wah.
We disappear into the night.
6/30/11
This motor coach is either lost or piloted by a mad man, it’s hard to tell. Our driver, Dop Li, wanders the asphalt jungle of NJ byways in a last chance power drive for the better part of 12 hours, and before I know it I’m standing in line with forty old geezers at a Sbarro counter at a place called the Vince Lombardi Rest Area, trying to blend. I had hoped we would land in Atlantic City. But word in the rest room is that we’re heading for Ft. Lee.
I can live with that.
I’ve heard good things.
If things go right, there may be work for me there.
7/1/11
Thanks to the fedora, I blend beautifully, right up to the Ft. Lee exit when someone catches me going through her purse. The result is screams and a gunfight. The usual stuff. I grab a mouthful of Xanex, and make an escape. Soon it’s another day, another dumpster at the rear of a large office building. I jump in and begin to forage when I realize that this time... I am not alone. A man wearing a business suit is peering in, looking for something. He looks distinguished...cautiously brilliant. It is senior CNBC economics correspondent Steve Liesman. I recognize him from watching Squawk Box. He gives me a nod, dumps a tub of slaw and heads into the building. It’s CNBC world headquarters. He holds the door as I stroll in behind him. I’ve always loved that guy.
Liesman has inspired me. This time I decide to be bold. My future is at stake. I want to settle down and have a family, maybe even adopt a Chinese kid for good karma. If I’m ever going to qualify for a mortgage at a decent rate, I need to act now. I need a job. I walk into the CNBC front lobby and using hand gestures, let the receptionist know that I would like to fill out a job application. Curiously, she totally gets me. It’s like she’s done all this before. Her name is Melody.
I can’t read or write (I’m a baboon) so I smear some stuff on the application. “Please don’t judge me” I thought bubble to Melody. I can tell she will not.
I wheel to leave when Melody says, “Wait! I’m sure I can get you in for an interview right now!” I stop in my tracks (on all fours) and think to myself...”New Jersey... This IS the promised land.”
Just then a commotion erupts. A Department of Wildlife Management S.W.A.T. team has burst into the lobby tossing capture nets and stun grenades, shooting anything that moves with tranquilizer darts. The guy at the coffee cart goes down hard, as does Montel, the blind shoeshine man. Eliot Spitzer, who also happens to be in the lobby apparently filling out an application of his own, flops on his stomach, crosses his ankles, interlocks his fingers behind his head and starts yelling at the top of his lungs, “I’ll deal! I’ll deal! I’ll deal!”.
The scene is loud and ugly, but it is no surprise. Life on the street can get ugly. ...Something I’ve known for a long time. I’ve watched a lot of Springer.
I know my run is over and I accept it. It didn’t go how I hoped, but hey...I’m a baboon. I’m lucky I’m not in lab somewhere sniffing deodorant with wires clipped to my brain. I hold out my hands for the cuffs.
But just then Melody, sweet Melody, steps up to the plate and hits one over the fence.
“Hey guys...” she says, “You’re wasting a golden opportunity. You’re standing in the middle of a major American news agency where there are no cameras to capture this amazing take down. Everybody’s out covering Bernanke. It’s a lose/lose paradigm with negative ROI.”
The cops stand transfixed. Like me, they are clearly CNBC fans.
“Why don’t you remand this monkey to me? I’ll keep her for the night and release her tomorrow wherever you want. You can trust me. Meanwhile you tip off all your favorite photogs, and bingo...big collar, instant photo op, win/win.”
“What’s in it for you?” barks a tough looking sergeant.
“What can I tell you?” she answers, staring me straight in the eye, “I’m an animal lover.”
“Gonna be a helluva a last night.” I think to myself. “You just gotta love New Jersey.”
7/2/11
Melody drives me to the drop zone. No words are spoken. She slips me a pack of smokes and we hold hands for a few minutes. It’s tough to let go. Apparently I’ve got something sticky on my hands. She gives me a shove and hits the gas and the deal is done. In no time flat I’m back in the joint.
That night my picture is everywhere. My cred in the yard is immense. Even better, if I ever want it there’s a job waiting for me in Englewood Cliffs. Lamont is not happy.
Yeah, there’ll be payback alright, and it was worth it.
But then what do I know?
I’m just a baboon.
© 2011 J. Mark Rast
As the ongoing investigation continues into exactly how an adventurous baboon managed to escape from an animal amusement park in Jackson Township, worried New Jersey homeowners have begun questioning the performance of their public safety agencies, and whether a conflict of interest cover up is at hand.
In the midst of this simmering controversy, investigators at KIELBASABLOG, working with the legal representatives of the baboon’s family, have obtained an exclusive copy of a journal kept by the baboon in the days leading up to and including her escape and recapature. This stunning document, the first known document written by a baboon, (using of all things, a first edition IPad), sheds a revealing light on this extraordinary episode of man vs. monkey.
The following passages are excerpts. In most cases, names have been changed to protect the identities of the parties involved. The entries begin on June 24th...the words are the baboon’s...
6/24/11
The sun goes down and the gloom settles upon me. Another night in hell. Everywhere I look I see nothing staring back at me but slack jaws, empty stares, and hairy, lice covered, simple minded lifeforms chewing with their mouths open and touching themselves inappropriately. And those are just the tourists. Inside the enclosure, it gets even worse, once you factor in the gang rivalries. the predatory lenders, and the total lack of hand sanitizer.
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this, but it must have been horrific. I look through the bars and I see the promised land...the land of milk and honey...
...suburban New Jersey.
6/25/11
Morning. The sunrise brings new hope, hope that is quickly dashed. Lamont, my keeper, is up to his cruel tricks once again. Ever the practical joker he has mixed a full bottle of ground up Cialis tablets in with our breakfast fruit, and now half of us are walking around with huge erections, including several of the females. (What’s up with that?)
Making things worse, a busload of 6th graders has arrived and is roaming the park unchecked. These are not Cub Scouts. In fact most of them have tattoos. It is not clear if they are part of an official field trip or if they are a rogue band of street thug scouting enthusiasts who have hijacked a bus. Naturally they ignore all the other residents and focus their mockery exclusively on us. One even flings his feces at us, acting out an unfortunate stereotype that is endlessly reinforced in the mainstream media.
Who even does that anymore?
It’s all so undignified.
6/26/11
I am sitting in a tree, smoking a Salem, staring at plane, hoping it will crash. I am bored.
A breeze picks up, blowing in from the distant Jersey swamps, scenting the air with fetid wisps of rotting trash, My Sin, low tide, and presumably, mob hits long past. My mood improves.
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I see a shiny piece of colorful cardboard flitting across the enclosure towards my feet. To my amazement I realize it is an unused scratch ticket. I wipe the fecal matter from my fingers and scratch.
I’m a winner. I just banged the NJ State Lottery for 50 large. Yeah, baby...
This is my chance!
6/27/11
$50,000 goes a long way in this joint.
Shortly after midnight, Mitchell, the embittered and under-appreciated assistant to Lamont, swings open the gates and gestures me to a waiting cab. I’m wearing a fake mustache, brand new cargo shorts, bowling shirt, and snap brim fedora from the Gap. I look good, although I worry that stripes make me look a little heavy. Up till now all my dealings with Mitchell have been peanuts, literally, and a lot of other penny-ante stuff...bootleg cigarettes...splits of chardonnay...a little weed. But this time he has scored big. He gets the scratch ticket. I get $700 cash...and freedom!
He is all smiles, and as I head out I give him a silent thumbs up. In return he mimes a flinging gesture.
What an asshole.
6/28/11
I awaken in a fog. Last night is a blur. All I know is that I am in a motel somewhere near a highway, all my money is gone, and I smell like fish. Looks like the party is over. Time for plan B.
I search the room for any other clues but turn up nothing to show except a $5 bill, my IPad, an empty tube of KY Jelly and a lingering sense of shame.
I head for the woods. As I pass through the parking lot I spot an unlocked Kia and search it looking for food. I find nothing more edible than a pack of Dentyne. I take the GPS, but then remember that I am a baboon and have no idea of how to use it. I eat half of the display screen then decide that without salt, it is not worth the effort.
I am starving and I spend the next fifteen hours wandering the forest trying to establish a relationship with the indigenous woodland fauna. For the most part they ignore me. Not even eye contact. Finally a skunk approaches me and asks me if I want to party. I demur, but do manage to get directions to a nearby dumpster. I spend the next hours going through discarded styrofoam take out boxes feasting on blobs of ketchup and all the cole slaw I can handle. Nobody ever eats the cole slaw.
Eventually, I nod off.
6/29/11
The morning is rough and I now understand why nobody eats the cole slaw. Even the skunk is keeping it’s distance. I don’t want to ever go through anything like that again.
These are desperate times and I decide it is time to start taking chances.
Through the woods I can see a neighborhood of houses. I can hear children playing. I can see a lot of red cedar mulch and sprinklers. I can see a Prius. I can smell cold Weber grills.
I move forward.
As I maneuver through the backyards I am assaulted with the awareness that with what’s available to me here I can eat as much as I want, as long as I want, as long as I’m willing to eat crabgrass and coleslaw and slow moving dog. I make my way behind a split level ranch, over a fence, and set my sites on a motionless shitzu splayed out before a bowl of dry kibble. It is either sleeping or having a stroke. In either case, the advantage is mine. I creep towards my target.
Suddenly....... SHIT! A HUMAN! I’VE BEEN SPOTTED! There is screaming. It’s a female in her mid-fifties. She is somewhat obese and wearing nothing but an unbuttoned flowered house coat. I’m the one screaming. She pulls out a 9mm Glock and starts firing. I’ve forgotten I was in New Jersey. Everybody’s armed. A stray round hits the shitzu and suddenly I understand why it hasn’t been moving. It was already wounded. What the hell is the deal with this place? What goes on here???
I grab a handful of Beneful and jump over the fence and start running. Next thing I know I am in a rest area on the Garden State Parkway. I peer into a parked car.
I’ll never do that again.
My psyche scarred, I race across the roadway and cars are screeching to a halt. I’ve been spotted again. More screaming, more shots. This is all getting out of hand. I jump on the bumper of a passing minivan and hold on for dear life.
Down the road I dare to look up. A news copter is circling. I’ve spent enough time watching truTV to know this is going to turn out bad. At Exit 11 I leap on to a passing bus. A good move.
Cops are everywhere, but, thank God, the world is blind to Fung Wah.
We disappear into the night.
6/30/11
This motor coach is either lost or piloted by a mad man, it’s hard to tell. Our driver, Dop Li, wanders the asphalt jungle of NJ byways in a last chance power drive for the better part of 12 hours, and before I know it I’m standing in line with forty old geezers at a Sbarro counter at a place called the Vince Lombardi Rest Area, trying to blend. I had hoped we would land in Atlantic City. But word in the rest room is that we’re heading for Ft. Lee.
I can live with that.
I’ve heard good things.
If things go right, there may be work for me there.
7/1/11
Thanks to the fedora, I blend beautifully, right up to the Ft. Lee exit when someone catches me going through her purse. The result is screams and a gunfight. The usual stuff. I grab a mouthful of Xanex, and make an escape. Soon it’s another day, another dumpster at the rear of a large office building. I jump in and begin to forage when I realize that this time... I am not alone. A man wearing a business suit is peering in, looking for something. He looks distinguished...cautiously brilliant. It is senior CNBC economics correspondent Steve Liesman. I recognize him from watching Squawk Box. He gives me a nod, dumps a tub of slaw and heads into the building. It’s CNBC world headquarters. He holds the door as I stroll in behind him. I’ve always loved that guy.
Liesman has inspired me. This time I decide to be bold. My future is at stake. I want to settle down and have a family, maybe even adopt a Chinese kid for good karma. If I’m ever going to qualify for a mortgage at a decent rate, I need to act now. I need a job. I walk into the CNBC front lobby and using hand gestures, let the receptionist know that I would like to fill out a job application. Curiously, she totally gets me. It’s like she’s done all this before. Her name is Melody.
I can’t read or write (I’m a baboon) so I smear some stuff on the application. “Please don’t judge me” I thought bubble to Melody. I can tell she will not.
I wheel to leave when Melody says, “Wait! I’m sure I can get you in for an interview right now!” I stop in my tracks (on all fours) and think to myself...”New Jersey... This IS the promised land.”
Just then a commotion erupts. A Department of Wildlife Management S.W.A.T. team has burst into the lobby tossing capture nets and stun grenades, shooting anything that moves with tranquilizer darts. The guy at the coffee cart goes down hard, as does Montel, the blind shoeshine man. Eliot Spitzer, who also happens to be in the lobby apparently filling out an application of his own, flops on his stomach, crosses his ankles, interlocks his fingers behind his head and starts yelling at the top of his lungs, “I’ll deal! I’ll deal! I’ll deal!”.
The scene is loud and ugly, but it is no surprise. Life on the street can get ugly. ...Something I’ve known for a long time. I’ve watched a lot of Springer.
I know my run is over and I accept it. It didn’t go how I hoped, but hey...I’m a baboon. I’m lucky I’m not in lab somewhere sniffing deodorant with wires clipped to my brain. I hold out my hands for the cuffs.
But just then Melody, sweet Melody, steps up to the plate and hits one over the fence.
“Hey guys...” she says, “You’re wasting a golden opportunity. You’re standing in the middle of a major American news agency where there are no cameras to capture this amazing take down. Everybody’s out covering Bernanke. It’s a lose/lose paradigm with negative ROI.”
The cops stand transfixed. Like me, they are clearly CNBC fans.
“Why don’t you remand this monkey to me? I’ll keep her for the night and release her tomorrow wherever you want. You can trust me. Meanwhile you tip off all your favorite photogs, and bingo...big collar, instant photo op, win/win.”
“What’s in it for you?” barks a tough looking sergeant.
“What can I tell you?” she answers, staring me straight in the eye, “I’m an animal lover.”
“Gonna be a helluva a last night.” I think to myself. “You just gotta love New Jersey.”
7/2/11
Melody drives me to the drop zone. No words are spoken. She slips me a pack of smokes and we hold hands for a few minutes. It’s tough to let go. Apparently I’ve got something sticky on my hands. She gives me a shove and hits the gas and the deal is done. In no time flat I’m back in the joint.
That night my picture is everywhere. My cred in the yard is immense. Even better, if I ever want it there’s a job waiting for me in Englewood Cliffs. Lamont is not happy.
Yeah, there’ll be payback alright, and it was worth it.
But then what do I know?
I’m just a baboon.
© 2011 J. Mark Rast
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