4/23/2005
by Emily Axford
A pall of fear and humiliation rests upon the shoulders of the people of Lowell, Massachusetts. In the trees, a simian specter stalks the government-protected boughs of Lowell’s National Arboretum.
"Is that monkey’s tail on backwards?"
"Look away child. God didn’t intend such a sight," Ms. Normile, a second grade teacher from Holyoke, shields seven year old Elizabeth’s sight but cannot divert her own.
The answer is no, Elizabeth. That monkey’s tail is not on backwards. That’s not even a monkey: it’s a man with a prehensile penis.
Prehensility is the quality of an organ that has adapted to grasp or seize. It is often associated with anthropoidal appendages. It means that a monkey’s tail, unlike a cat’s tail, has manual dexterity and opposability. This evolutionary triumph, bestowed upon the wrong organ, can be disastrous.
"I was eating a bagel the other morning and I had the window open," Ms. Pauline, resident park ranger and wilderness guide of the once thriving tourist attraction, recalls. "He reached in and grabbed the other half of my bagel right from under my nose. Um, not with his hands."
Apparently the terror has a predilection for petty theft. "Zippering your bag isn’t enough," James Fenimore warns, "This isn’t just any penis we’re dealing with. He can unbutton, unsnap... even decode crude combination locks. In fact, one time he escaped arrest by picking the lock of the handcuffs."
Some residents are concerned for more than just their personal property.
"He smokes like a chimney," Louis Gainsborough noted. "Smoking is illegal in the arboretum. We are a tree sanctuary, we cannot afford to compromise the quality of the air. How are we going to get people to respect that rule if we can’t even get this monstrous, beastly... penis to?"
"Louis failed to mention," included Dorothy Gainsborough, "the damage he’s caused the local flora. His penis has deflowered every one of our flowering dogwoods and he gave all of our oak saplings a fungal disease called ‘oak wilt’."
"He’s a prankster, alright." Karen Dowd, President of Lowell’s chapter of Trees In Trauma. "About twenty leagues east from here, in a baby douglas fir, he’s built a nest of stolen toupees."
"This place used to be alive with sharing and learning," Ed Ganley, groundskeeper for Lowell’s Arboretum, said. "Now its just monkey bars for some sick mutant’s rhinoceros sized [male genitalia]." Ed Ganley’s wife declined comment beyond, "I think he’s friendly," followed by giggling, flushed cheeks, and a spritz of perfume into an unbuttoned blouse.
Not all of Lowell’s constituents consider his presence a negative force.
"We spent the day together one time. People think he’s obscene, I think he’s just misunderstood. He initially got my attention when he gave me a wet willy. I was really taken aback, until he followed up with a loopie, at which point I realized he’s just a big goofball and we got into a tickle fight. He taught me to tie a square knot and made me this lanyard bracelet. Also, he’s surprisingly good at getting that annoying plastic covering off new cds."
As dusk settles on the grounds of Lowell’s arboretum, residents and guests anticipate the fate of the compound with sullen eyes and detached hearts. In the sunset, the shadow of a man dangles from a tree branch by an oversized sex organ, lynched by his blessing and his curse: a mischievous, misunderstood, prehensile penis.