It was a normal day in March in Saskatchewan. After a long and grueling third day, I was settling down for a nice, long sleep. As I began to lay out my sleeping bag, I heard rustling outside. At first I thought it was just my pet pig Porky playing with his plastic porcupine. So I went back to making my bed. A few moments after nestling into my sleeping bag, I was startled by a much louder rustling noise outside my one-man tent. I decided to investigate the commotion.

Replacing my "parts" into my sleeping trousers, I opened up the tent. I noticed nothing, save a lavendar legal pad left laying ‘long my large lunch of lentil and lemonade. I sprang from the tent toward the legal pad.

Now the next thing I remember was waking up in a basement, surrounded by many malicious monkeys making Maltese money ‘minding me of mama’s memorable marmalade machine. Mama’s machine was a thing of beauty. It worked like a clock, never missing a beat in making her delicious marmalade. These monkeys I had come across were just the same. I was enthralled with the monkey’s choreography. Each monkey had a specific task and not once did I notice anything amiss. Then again, I was a mere novice at counterfeiting money compared to these monkeys. And just as a pupil idolizes his teacher, so did I view these money making monkeys as gods right here on Earth. In fact, it was as if these monkeys weren’t from Earth at all, but rather some grand place where monkeys could indeed perform human tasks as if it were as natural to them as climbing trees and eating bananas.

Before long, I realized that somehow I had been misplace from my camping trip in Saskatchewan and there was not a sole sign of the location of my pet, Porky the Pig. I was petrified of the consequences which might have resulted from me interrupting the monkeys. But my love for my pig was too great and I managed to blather a few words,

My pig is gone you money making monkeys

Tell me where he is, you jungle work-junkies.

I don’t where I am, yet admire your work,

But I need my pig, don’t think me a jerk.

What happened next, I couldn’t quite comprehend at the time, and frankly, I’m not sure I even can now. One of the monkeys, apparently the leader, approached me. He was handsome for a monkey. His face told his story. The scars were like the lifeline of the hand, a testimony to this monkey’s strength and superiority. His expression was long and stern. I was terrified, yet had this uncontrollable desire to laugh : I was being stared upon my a scar-faced monkey!

The monkey then opened his mouth as if to say something, unleashing the loudest, most shrill monkey screech I had ever heard. He then closed his mouth and reached for something from underneath his cloak. He raised it toward my face. It was a pink legal pad, a pink legal pad of counterfeit Maltese money.

Then over a loudspeaker rang the words,

WE ARE SORRY,

SO SO SORRY.

WE ARE SORRY

SO VERY VERY SORRY.

Not quite understanding, I turned again to the elder monkey, accepting the apology.

The monkey then spoke, "We are sorry. So So Sorry".

I replied, "yes, thank you".

The monkey spoke again, "We are the members of the Malicious Monkeys from Mars. We make Maltese money with my mamma’s marmalade machine. The month is March and we must make mass ‘mounts of Maltese money to mail to Mickey Mouse. We accidentally mailed the first pad of money to you and your pig, Porky. As you can see, the mistake was honest and we hope forgivable. Please accept this jar of marmalade and ream of normal yellow legal pads as an apology".

Being very gracious, I accepted the gifts. I had just been in contact with aliens. I had actually spoken to them. I was in awe of the efficiency of their work. But I still had two questions for the monkeys, "where is my pig and how the hell am I going to get home"?

With the twist of a wrist and a snap of his finger I was transported back to my tent in Saskatchewan, already asleep.

The next morning, I awoke, and remembering my experience from the night before, went to check on my pig.

Porky lay dead in a ditch, devoured by deer before dawn. I began to weep, but then noticed another legal pad dangling in the trees. I ran toward it, leaping into the air to grab it.

The legal pad read "The pig’s demise was not our fault. You see, since primates are the only animals with opposable thumbs, we are therefore the only animals which can snap our fingers. While on his visit with us, Porky insisted he be taught to snap. In utter vain and against our advice, he continued to try to snap his hooves. His attempts ended in tragedy when his leg broke. In accordance with human custom, we shot the animal with the broken leg. We are sincerely apologetic for these most unfortunate events".

I placed the pad on the pond and pondered ‘bout my pig. Then I realized that it wasn’t the monkey’s fault and that Porky was getting old any way. Porky had always insisted I teach him new tricks, but Porky was an old pig and you know how the saying goes.

That evening, I sat down to a grand feast of pork chops, which would have been even greater if I had found Porky before the deer did. The next morning I traveled back into town and caught the next train home.

THE END