Proper Grooming With Steve T. Ape

If you're like me, you spend a lot of time grooming. You no doubt stand in front of the mirror for hours on end, combing the hair in your underarms until the curls are full, bouncy and lustrous. You also can probably get lost for hours picking chiggers and ticks out of the course hairs on your arm. You are also probably an ape.

And, like me, you may not have noticed how incredibly filthy most apes are. I know I didn't. Given that I spend around six or seven hours performing the above duties, I naturally assumed that my grooming habits were above reproach, and confidently trundled down to the local drinking pond, where I chased fertile females around its circumference for hours before catching them and masturbating on them.

It was only when I first came into contact with human researchers that I realized how filthy I really was. At first I naturally assumed that they were photographing me and studying me BECAUSE I was so well-groomed and clean; such was my ego. After all, the humans had stuck around for years, watching my fellow apes and I during our regular day-to-day activities: eating the aforementioned chiggers; hunting; gathering; masturbating on anything we could catch while running around the drinking pond; occasionally grabbing a weak researcher by the ankles, thumping them against a tree for a bit, and having forced sex with them.

Why wouldn't they have stayed as long as they had, if not to marvel at our lustrous coats? To gawk in awe of our well-manicured hand-hands and foot-hands? To breathe deep the lusty, intoxicating aromas given off by the layers of feces we would coat our backs with as a method of deterring mosquitoes? If not to penetrate us anally with their probes? (To this day, I suspect they still think we don't know about that, since the penetrations were carried off in the dead of night as we slept. But oh, we knew. We knew and said nothing. The price of our silence was pain initially, but gradually a series of orgasms that wracked our ape bodies and discharged ten pounds of loose stools onto the prober. They stopped probing us soon after this; so we, of course, started doing it to ourselves.)

It wasn't until much later that we learned the truth. Carl T. Ape and I snuck into the camp a few nights ago, looking for some copies of People Magazine to read, and maybe a few researchers to slam up against a tree or two and have sex with. While leafing through the magazines in the Portapotty, we came across a National Geographic with (and here I blush) my own picture all over the cover.

The title? Filthy Apes of the Lowlands: Our Smelly Cousins. Carl T. Ape was shocked. I wasn't, because I couldn't read, but Carl T. Ape read it to me, and then I was shocked too.

At first all I felt was anger at the researchers who'd watched us under false pretenses. How dare they? I immediately walked out of the outhouse, bashed them all against a tree and had sex with them. But then I realized I was really only angry at myself. I secreted away the magazine, and had Carl T. Ape read me more of it the next morning.

Revelations abounded: apparently, my genitals are "huge" and "smell like rotting deer." This is an unfair assessment, in my opinion. If someone drove into piles of rotting deer all day, you couldn't fairly say their cars smelled like rotting deer, could you? Of course it'd smell like deer! So too with my genitals, which penetrate between five to ten rotting deer a day.

But there were other criticisms that weren't so easily dismissed. For instance, the fact that I'm covered in my own feces and semen.

People NOTICED that? I was shocked. I'd never assumed the researchers were so image conscious. My first instinct was to run down to the drinking pond and jump in, and I did just that. Within the hour I was clean as a whistle and feeling much better about myself. Then some females came by, and I was immediately taken with the urge to run around the pond after them, waving my erection and crushing squirrels to death in an effort to impress. Five heady sex-filled hours later, I woke up from an exhausted rest to find myself once more covered head to toe in the excretory waste of everybody in the tribe, myself included.

Deep shame followed. But then, acceptance. Perhaps I was a filthy, filthy ape. But the fun I had getting so filthy! And yes, I would never again be able to think of myself as well-groomed. But then, the people doing the judging I'd already smacked against a tree and humped to room temperature. So really, who could say anymore if I was a poor groomer? Nobody, if they didn't want a good tree-smacking, followed by a big ape dick in every hole God gave them.

I am reminded of the words of a great thinker: "To thine own self be true." The thinker, of course, was Bob T. Ape. I unfortunately sexed him to a painful death around the drinking pond months ago, but as dying words go, they were both poignant and muffled. Think about them, won't you? I'm afraid I must go; a deer has thrown caution to the wind and is now drinking from the drinking pond; a certain large, filthy, phallusy friend is giving me Nature's signal that it's time to chase Bambi around the pond a little, then penetrate it six ways from Sunday.

My friend, to thine own self be true. Take note, National Geographic. And take pictures. This is going to be memorable.

-Steve T. Ape