Now Tork, well, I knew he was trouble the moment I saw him looking at the picture I'd had painted of Valerie. I mean not looking but looking. All starry-eyed, for lack of a better term.

But it was while his fellow band mates were mocking me that Tork ("Peter" I think they call him; absolutely revolting name if you ask me) did the most offensive thing humanly possible: he stared at Valerie herself. A picture is one thing, but another man's girl?

I sternly reprimanded him, but somehow I didn't feel like that was good enough. It was then that I knew I must avenge the robbery of my childhood, and thwart the threat of losing my girl.

###

The day the Monkees auditioned for and got the gig, the picture I'd had painted of Valerie disappeared, and a great deal of panic arose. We asked after it everywhere, but it was not to be found. When I suggested interrogating the Monkees, however, my girlfriend sharply rebuked me.

But, when we stopped by to ask about the playlist for the party, I took it as the perfect opportunity to prove to Valerie that these "Monkees" were nothing more than thieving Chipmonks.

Well, their beach house was a complete wreck, I must say, so my fabulous mind deduced that it would be fairly simplistic to hide the picture in all the mess. And, it turned out that Nesmith (or is it Nishwash?) was holding a mirror over it while trying to look natural by combing his hair with the other hand and acting all vain.

In any case, Valerie told Tork (who readily admitted that he'd taken it) that he could keep it until the party. Not a smart move, if you ask me. But then, who asked me?

Yes, that was the first of the Monkee shenanigans. But by no means was it the last.

###

Well, after that happened, I was exceedingly cautious about making my first move against the Monkees. And, in all technicality, I didn't pull the first move. They did that for me.

In an attempt to keep Valerie from Tork (an impending threat if I ever saw one), I arranged a date that lasted an entire day. That day, we caught a movie and then decided to go to lunch. That was where the second Monkee shenanigan took place.

Like any rich man who wants to show a lady a good time, I took her to a restaurant that advertised "authentic French waiters" and "the best champagne in California".

I asked one of these "authentic French waiters" to get me a bottle of their best champagne. He tried and failed to open it. With a flourish I said only a "real gentleman" knows how to open champagne and proceeded to snatch the bottle away from him.

I should have suspected something when I found that Iwas unable to open it. You see, I'm a seven time gold medalist champagne opener in the Gentlemen's Olympics.

Then that "authentic French waiter" took one end, I took the other, and together we yanked.

When we finally got it open, so much pressure had built up inside the bottle that when it was released, it managed to knock a building clear in L.A. I mean, Malibu's not that far, but it's still pretty impressive that a little bottle of champagne could do all that.

And yes, you dolt, it literally knocked down a building. Just watch the footage.

Now, after that happened I obviously didn't want anyone to see my flawless champagne opening record ruined. So I left the waiter with a fifty dollar bill (and you say I'm stingy), dragged Valerie out of there, into my car, and starting cruising down 1966 Street, looking for someplace -anyplace- to duck into.

The first thing I saw was a little art festival, and it seemed as good as anything, so I swerved into the grass area they called a parking lot (pathetic, I know) in record time, yanked Valerie out of the car, and then just began casually sauntering through the exhibits, occasionally saying something like "Art, Valerie. Art."

At one point she commented that she liked a picture of a street with the ladies in their hoopskirts and the gentlemen sporting stovepipes. I rebuked her, just like any rich guy who doesn't want to buy something does. Informing her that it didn't "say anything", I quickly scanned the premises for a piece that did say something. A conglomerated pipe system immediately caught my eye.

I instantaneously formulated some short speech about its representation of the "over-mechanized structure of our society", but I had only just started my spiel when I saw a bearded man dusting it and immediately demanded to know if he was the artist who created the piece.

He gawked at me. "What are you, a nut?" Ignoring that last comment, I quickly began showering him with compliments and insisted that I must own it. I'd reached for my wallet when he said, matter-of-factly, "You can have it. But all it does is turn on the fountain." And with that, he rotated a valve lightening fast, and I got doused in the face.

Well, needless to say, I was beyond humiliated. After all, my champagne opening record had been demolished, and now a young, imprudent artist had just drenched me with his "masterpiece". I was about to sock the fellow in the nose when Valerie, exerting all her strength, was able to keep me back from that creep and eventually coaxed me back to the car.

Once there, she climbed in, and looked sullenly out the window, waiting until I was settled before she began her lecture.

"Ronald Ignatius Farnsworth. Violence is not the solution to everything."

"But Valerie!" I protested. "He'd just embarrassed me in front of who knows how many people."

"I don't care what he did. It makes me ashamed to be seen in public with you when you act in such a disgraceful manner."

I had no response for that, so the rest of the ride was engulfed by silence. We'd reached downtown Malibu when she said, "Let's get off here." So I parked by the sidewalk, not really caring that the passenger's side was nearest to the road. I easily slid out on my side while she attempted left and right not to get run over by a Stingray or XKE or the like. It was actually rather amusing.

Well, when she finally made it around, we began strolling down the sidewalk, looking just like an ordinary, happy couple (no, really). That is, until we came across the toy salesman. He was sort of a funny-looking guy who spoke with a slight accent. I could have sworn I recognized him from somewhere, but I couldn't quite put my finger on where.

Truthfully I hadn't intended to get involved with him. On principle, I don't like children or those who cater to them. No, I take that back. I hate them. I had an exceedingly unhappy childhood, and I see no reason why anyone should be comforted, coddled, babied, as a child. If all parents were as incompetent as mine, you'd have a whole lot more rich geniuses (like me) out there.

But the toy salesman asked me if I wanted "something for the little nipper". I responded no, and then he concluded that I didn't like children. He was obviously right, but Valerie (being a woman), put her hands on her hips and shot me a "remember that talk we had" look. So, I lied through my teeth and said I loved children. Before I knew it, the ugliest doll I had ever seen was thrust into my arms.

The man then began his sales pitch about how it was the only doll on the market that really wet, spit, and screamed. The worst part, though, were his demonstrations. Demonstrations, that is, of the doll wetting, spitting, and screaming.

Now it's one thing to have a champagne opening record wrecked... Or to be doused by a rash artist... But to be wet on, spit on, and screamed at by a baby doll?!

I looked up at that creep of a salesman. There was a familiar glint in his eyes.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" I demanded. In hindsight, all I can say is that made him pack up his stand quickly and make a run for it.

I knew that three strange occurrences, with me as a victim in all three, could only mean one thing: someone had set them up. And I thought I had it figured out who that someone was.

I spent the next two days attempting to locate a picture of the Monkees, which I will have you know was no easy task, since "Too Many Girls (Davy and Fern)" hadn't been… oh, sorry. I'm spoiling next week's episode. And yes, blockhead, I mean next week's episode. I am well aware that the one I almost spoiled is the fifteenth and I'm describing the thirteenth right now, but I remind you that I said this one I am currently speaking of went on the air last week.

In any case, it was hard to do, but, being my brilliant self, I found one, and bamboozled Valerie into coming over to see my conclusion. She was there when I showed her the picture -with their heads circled, no less- and I proved that Nesmith was the artist, Dolenz (the giant ham) was the salesman, and Jones was the "authentic French waiter" (which was really a rip-off, since he's English). She wasn't upset with anyone but me.

I made a snap decision right then and there. I had to make my move soon. And holy fudge, it had to be good.

So, I looked directly into the camera (yeah, that clod was still following me around; pathetic, right?). And you know what I said?

"Two can play at this game."