Service monkeys, as the pros call them, are trained to do some pretty elaborate tasks around the house, including microwaving food. Now, you have your Bobby Flays out in the world, who can take a beet, a steak, a shoe, and some Mrs. Dash and make a gourmet feast. But if you put that head to head against a monkey with a can of Beefaroni and a microwave, and you don't choose the monkey, then you're the most lavish and indulgent human being on Earth, clearly no longer bound by simple pleasures and living a Caligula-like decadent fantasy of excess and depravity than even the modest microwave-operating hands of a tiny monkey cannot hope to manipulate in any way.
A monkey cooking you dinner is like being hugged by Sasquatch or a talking parrot rattling off an entire, unheard standup comedy routine for you every time you come home from work. It's phenomenal in every way. Plus they feed you after they cook it, which is typically the kind of shit only people who have Roman emperor fantasies get to experience, so you're still Caligula! Put that steak down and kick Bobby Flay's ass out. Or invite him over to give the monkey lessons.
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