The name's Ronald Ignatius Farnsworth. You can call me Ronnie. I doubt you've heard of me, but if you have you must also have heard of the Monkees. And chances are you think they're just your classic, innocent boys next door, and that I'm a haughty, cruel, insensitive, rich, stingy, snobbish, creep. Now I will grant you haughty and rich, but cruel, insensitive, stingy, and snobbish? Ha!
You, my friend (or not), are sadly misinformed. It was probably that episode of The Monkees that NBC broadcast last week that did it, complete with footage from a guy who was following them (and me, unfortunately) around with a camera. But I will have you know that I'm not the bad guy here. I'm just the innocent victim that got all the blame because the writers decided that the story, as it was, wasn't "exciting" enough. Pathetic, right?
I lost the best thing I ever had to one of those… rodents. I mean, let's face it, humans or Monkees, they don't deserve to be called primates. And I say "rodent" specifically because I have reason to believe they're members of a cult. Namely "The Chipmonks".
And no, you clod, I didn't misspell that.
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"All men must have someone. Have someone who will never take advantage of a love bright as the sun. Someone to understand them. And you just may be the one."
My head was pounding, pain building up in my temples, though part of that I'm sure was due to my clenched jaw.
Here I had offered to take Valerie (my girlfriend and the best thing I ever found) to a nice lunch and a matinee performance of Arsenic and Old Lace, but instead she wanted to stick around my mansion and listen to this "band" audition for a gig at her coming-out party. So here we were, giving an ear (or in Valerie's case, both ears) to this infernal racket.
But to me, it wasn't just a terrible song. It brought back memories -painful memories- of my childhood…
I was born during the Great Depression and grew up in part during World War II. Being a child during wartime is never easy, and the fact that neither of my parents were particularly competent didn't help matters. They had me at a very young age, and as far back as I can remember they were never around, so I was on my own. I barely ever saw them, but somehow I knew they were my parents.
Remember that cult I mentioned earlier? Well, growing up I was dirt poor because my parents were some of the most faithful members of The Chipmonks and thus made large "sacrifices". This was supplemented by the fact that neither of them could hold a job.
I really only have one memory of them. Once, when I was very young, they dragged me off to one of the "services". All the members wore the same clothing (double-breasted blue shirts and khaki pants) and chanted these creepy songs.
But the thing I found most shocking were the haircuts. Long, long, long, even on the men. Remember, I was a young, inexperienced child, and these were the 1940s.
Has anything I've said rung a bell?
Growing up all alone wasn't easy, but I coped well, or so I like to think. After school, I worked odd jobs wherever I could, and since I had an exceedingly sympathetic landlord who never really asked for the rent, I kept myself fed and clothed.
But my biggest break was when I won a scholarship, and my high school history teacher, because he was so impressed with my brilliance, offered to pay the difference.
College was a glorious time for me. The idea of just learning, without constantly thinking of where my next nickel would come from, intrigued me. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa. And you know the rest.
I entered a profession (and no, I'm not going to tell you what it was; I don't want you figuring out my tactics) and now, ten years later, I own a vast mansion and have a full staff of servants, including my prized butler, Jeeves. No, not that Jeeves, you simpleton.
Now I will bet you a Rolls Royce (yes, I have more than one) that by this point you're all ruffled and confused, trying to wrap your head around what all this has to do with "You Just May Be the One".
Well, in case you didn't pick up on my hints (in which case you are the epitome of a numbskull or too young, which is almost as bad), I will have you know that the Monkees look exactly like The Chipmonks, right down to the hair. So, it is logical to assume that they are members. And I will also have you know that I am convinced that "You Just May Be the One" is the primary chant used by the cult. I think this is even further evidence. Yeah, yeah, Nesmith claims to have written it, but after all, he's just a Chipmonk.
So there I was, listening to this terrible song with a completely oblivious member of the opposite sex.
"I think that's…quite enough." Clapping my hands, I made this statement, the one I'd been attempting to make for I don't know how long, trying to cut off the abominable clatter. This time, it worked. I turned to Valerie.
"Valerie surely you don't want these chipmunks to play at your party," I exclaimed, making sure to put extra emphasis on the word "chipmunks".
She glared at me reproachfully. "I certainly do, Ronnie, and they're not 'chipmunks', they're the Monkees."
"But they're dreadful!" I countered. Then, in an undertone, I said, "All that hair."
"Ronnie." And, much to my chagrin, she hired them for the gig. Of course, little did she know…
