The Secret of the Flying Monkeys

I have a couple of groups of secret facebook friends. One group is moms that all have kids that graduated from high school in 2013. The other group is so secret I can’t even tell you what we have in common or what we discuss or I would have to kill you. Let’s call this second group The Flying Monkeys. Why? Because it’s my fucking blog and I happen to LIKE flying monkeys! My bucket list includes playing a flying monkey in a production of the Wizard of Oz. I’d be that fatass monkey that lumbers across the stage. The audience point and laugh at the waddling grounded monkey because they would know that I ate most of the munchkins and had some Winkies for dessert.

But I digress. Most of the time us Flying Monkey peeps sit around and discuss secret stuff. One of the biggest secrets that we discuss is a secret even to us.

Ya followin. Me? Good.

This secret is a person that has a blog and and posts stuff to another site that we all belong to. My fellow Flying Monkey’s think she knows volumes about the subject we all care about and try to research her and discover her real identity.

Being the slacker that I am, I follow these discussions with much amusement. They have an entire FILE on that facebook page with “sightings” from the internet and a profile with info including her approximate age based on an assumed high school and college graduation years, the state she may be from, and other info gleaned from various sources.  I, of course, came up with my own profile. I think he is a forty year old man who owns a lot of cats and blogs from his mom’s basement in his dirty underwear. In fact, he may be the real Buffalo Bill from the Silence of the Lambs movie. Except I see him as fatter and with a distinct absence of butterflies; maybe flies, but definitely not butterflies.

The whole point is who the hell KNOWS who is behind someone’s identity on the internet? All of my Flying Monkey friends may turn out to be just munchkins wearing costumes. Does it matter? Not really, not to me anyway. As long as there is a friend or just someone who is offering good advice no matter where they learned it under that grey matted fluff, I feel pretty good about them and I’m happy to “know” them. Sometimes believing is just as good as being.

Except if you are a murdering weirdo like Buffalo Bill. That’s just not cool at all.



See? All of Dorothy’s friends wore costumes. They were her friends even though one
was really a dumbass, one was a big pussy and one was missing it’s fucking HEART.
They choose to be friends no matter what.