185. Up in Flames

I haven’t written an ordinary blog post today. My typewriter monkeys are to blame. They managed to get their paws on some pyrotechnics. Again. This time, they made the fireworks themselves… or at any rate, they tried.

There ought to be a law against selling pyrotechnics to monkeys.

Too much black powder?

I took a vacation this week, you see. I spent it visiting friends and relatives. My monkeys stayed behind.

When I got back this evening, I heard rap music blasting from my apartment. That was a bad sign. Then I saw smoke pouring from the windows. That was a worse sign.

Damage is minimal, fortunately. Scorch marks can be painted over and the carpet can be replaced. All the same, it’s days like these that make me wonder why I invested in typewriter monkeys in the first place. I could have had an intern. He could have made coffee, not fireworks. Why didn’t I get an intern?

Anyhow, raging conflagrations ignited by homemade pyrotechnics are my excuse for not publishing a prompt, proper blog post today. This blog shall resume on Monday with our usual… whatever the heck it is we do around here.

Incidentally, my monkeys’ liking for rap music puzzles me. Fireworks I can understand, but… rap? Ah, well. I’m sure their interest is a harmless one.

2 thoughts on “185. Up in Flames

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