World's 1st Talking Chimpanzee

March 1, 2006

AN PIECE FROM THE NEW YORKER ABOUT A TALKING CHIMP

TALKING CHIMP GIVES HIS FIRST PRESS CONFERENCE

by Paul Simms

Issue of 2005-06-06

Posted 2005-05-30

Hello? Can everyone hear me? Anyone?

Check, check. Check, one two.

Is this thing on?

Not the microphone—I mean my Electronic Larynx Implant device. Is it working? Hit the "Reboot" button, and see if that ook ook-ook ook.

Ook? Ook? Ook-ook.

Ook!

Ook-ook-oo—why does it seem like it always takes an eternity for the eli to reboot? I mean, isn't this something we should have ironed out a long time ago?

Oh. O.K. We're back online now? Good. You can all hear me out there? Great.

I'd like to apologize for the technical difficulties up here. One would think that the most important part of setting up the world's first talking-chimp demonstration is making sure that the P.A. is working, but . . . O.K. I guess.

Can I get a bowl of water, please? Thank you. Is the sound guy here? The sound guy. The P.A. technician. Is he here? He's in the back? Just as well. It's just that . . . you know how sometimes you get the feeling that you'd like to bite bite bite bite bite someone? Anyone? Nothing? Whatever. It'll pass.

Well, anyway: Hello, male humans and female humans! I am indeed what you call a chimpanzee. I do have a human-given proper name—something that sounds like Timmy or Jimmy or Bimmy or Immy—but, for some reason, recognizing and pronouncing human-given proper names is virtually impossible for me. So, yeah, all you skeptics can go ahead and make hay with that one, but I'm doing my best up here.

I guess I should start by acknowledging Dr. Female-Human-Lemon-Colored-Hair and her partner Dr. Male-Human-Persistent-Territory-Threatener for all the great work they've done with me—or, rather, on me—in the past few years.

The development of the eli was a long and arduous process, and there were more than a few times—usually after being shot with a tranquillizer dart and then waking up hours later with excruciatingly painful bleeding stitch holes in my neck and chest regions—when I wasn't sure if it was worth it. But I guess it was, because here we are today, in this beautiful conference room at the Sheraton.

In fact, there were some days when I felt nothing but the desire to bite bite bite bite bite everyone involved, including, if you can believe it, Mr. Male-Human-Black-Skin-Food-Bringer. Who, for my money, is the true unsung hero of this interminable experiment. This guy is the male human who not only brings me my kibble every morning but also delivers to my cage a metal bucket full of orange wedges every afternoon.

So give him a round of applause, if you would. Stand up, Mr. Male-Human-Black-Skin-Food-Bringer! Don't be shy!

He's not here? O.K., then. I'm not sure why he wasn't invited to share in the limelight today, but I guess we all have our different ways of doing things. Or something. Let's just move right along.

I had planned today to speak mainly about the similarities between humans and chimpanzees. How we're all members of the same family, and so on and so forth.

I feel like I have to take a dump right now.

But instead of speaking about the similarities between humans and—

Ahh. That's better. Dump taken. Where was I?

Similarities. Right. But instead of speaking about similarities I'd like to take this time to—

I'm sorry, you people in the first few rows. Apparently, my dump somehow offends you? Perhaps if I gather it up and fling it at you, you'll think twice next time before you wrinkle your dinky noses at my healthy and natural exudate. Is that what I should do? Because it's very easy. All I have to do is scoop it up like this and—

Ow!

Take it easy with the leash, Mr. Male-Human-Leash-Puller-If-He-Ever-Turns-His-Back-Bite-Bite-Bite! I wasn't actually going to do it! Sheesh. Why this guy is here but my kibble-and-orange-wedge-bringing buddy isn't, I have no idea.

Where was I?

Could I get another bowl of water, please? Thank you. Give me a moment here.

Ah . . . that's the stuff. The elixir of life, which soothes all but the most surgery-ravaged monkey throat.

Anyway, let's just go to your questions and get this over with, because I'm pretty eager to get back to my cage at this point.

Yes, right here in the front—Mr. Male-Human-Small-Torso-No-Threat?

Right. As I said, I am eager to get back to my cage. That surprises you somehow? Let me explain. I like my cage. My cage is small and manageable. Unlike your cage here, which makes me uneasy. Who needs a cage this large? I mean, come on! How can you be comfortable in a cage so large that the entrance and egress points are so far away that sometimes I think they might not even exist? With a cage this large, any random taker-of-food or biter-of-chimpanzees could enter at any time and take your kibble—or, even worse, your orange wedges—and/or bite bite bite you.

I mean, I know: your human needs are more complex than mine, because you're all fancy and ****. But as for me and my kind? Give me a full kibble trough every morning and regular delivery of orange wedges every afternoon, and I'm good. Maybe an empty beer keg to push from one side of my cage to the other and back again. And of course the presence of (or at least the promise of) a potential female copulation partner within the immediate smellable vicinity.

Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I am experiencing a feeling that virtually compels me to try to eat this microphone.

Ow! There's really no reason to go nuts with the leash like that, Mr. Bite-Bite-Bite-Bite-Bite-As-Soon-As-Possible! No one told me the microphone was a "Bad-Boy-Don't-Eat" item. So work with me a little—O.K., Mr. Gouge-Eyes-Eat-Fingers?

Wow, folks. I guess it takes all kinds, huh? Give me a minute while I simultaneously finish off this bowl of water and take another dump.

Ahh.

And ahh again.

Another question?

Yes—you, Ms. Female-Human-Copulation-Candidate, right here on the left. Your question?

Mm-hmm? That's an excellent question. But, before I answer, may I ask you something? When was the last time you copulated?

I can tell by the way you cover your bared teeth with your hand while your cheeks fill with color that my question intrigues you. I like that. Your copulation partner must be gigantic and have a virtually bottomless supply of orange wedges to have snared a mate like you. But I tell you this: one hour with me and my long stick, and you'd be—

Ow! Again with the leash! Always with the leash, Mr. Male-Human-Mount-And-Copulate-With-To-Humiliate-Before-Killing!

You know what? Go ahead with the leash. Seriously, keep it up. Go down in history as the male human who strangled the world's first talking chimpanzee. What do I care?

I happened to be referring to my termite stick, for your kind information. It's a sophisticated food-gathering tool? Maybe you've heard of it? No?

Figures.

All right, I'm done with this now. Take me back to my cage, please. asap. Yes, I know that many of you have more questions, but I'm afraid I'm experiencing a strong, unsettling feeling that the empty beer keg back in my cage is currently on exactly the wrong side and needs to be pushed back to the other side as soon as possible. So let me get back to my job, and maybe we can talk again another time.