My name is King Dom Cum.
I have a yellow umbrella that doubles as a parasol.
At the moment I can breathe through my nose quite well thankyou, although I’m not sure how long this will last.
A monkey in a leather jacket accosted me yesterday. He searched my pockets, looking for cigarettes most likely.
When monkeys get nicotine withdrawal they go four shadows to the moon.
Unfortunately I didn’t have any cigarettes, having spent the last of my shiny silver coins on a plate of three-shell spaghetti.
The monkey became agitated and urinated on my foot, at which point I took out my Glock 17 and blew that monkey into the next laugh line.
They made a joke about monkey brains in that Indiana Jones movie — always have despised the little Asian boy with the whiskers — but have you ever tried to wipe monkey brains off a pair of lemon corduroy slacks?
I haven’t either. I wore navy slacks, but even wiping monkey brains off navy slacks was hard enough.
So I ran into the nearest laundrette and whipped off my daks.
I’d forgotten to put away the Glock, so the people there thought I was some deranged escaped mental patient. I told them I was just the King.