Dopey Monkey

I've never liked banana-flavored things—a preference I trace to my single-digit-childhood years, when I was stricken with some sort of single-digit-childhood illness and fed banana-flavored medicine in a little plastic cup.

This medicine tasted nothing like banana. Okay, there was a hint of banana after-taste—the same sort of icky banana flavor that I imagined might reside in the mouth after one barfed up real banana. So this medicine—I didn't know who the evil medicine makers were kidding. Did they even taste the stuff before slapping the "Real Banana Flavor!" label on the bottle? Surely not. Because if so, then they were liars, all of them. And liars were bad. And certainly no one producing medicine that was supposed to help cure people could be bad, right? (Ah, naiveté.)

Anyway. Those banana-flavored-medicine days traumatized me so much that until yesterday, I had always had this gag reflex when it came to banana-flavored things. Candy Runts? No way. Jelly Bellies? Ick. Ice cream? No, no, no. (And when I can't even stomach the ice cream, you know this post-traumatic banana stress must be bad.)

But yesterday, that all changed for exactly two hours, after I was handed a cartoony, palm-tree-shaped plastic sippy cup of sorts, filled with a sweet and slushy alcoholic drink: the Dopey Monkey.

At first, I was skeptical. When I asked the bartender what was in a Dopey Monkey, and heard the word "banana," my immediate reaction was, "Oh, darn—I guess I won't be cashing in this free drink ticket." But then I looked at the plastic palm-tree-shaped sippy cups and thought, "But how can I resist? If everyone else is walking around with those sippy cups, I am going to be one jealous monkey." So I grabbed one off the bar.

The Dopey Monkey is a cocktail made of something like three different kinds of banana-flavored liquor. I cannot remember the exact ingredients now, because today is the Day After I drank two Dopey Monkeys. And the period following the consumption of two Dopey Monkeys is, I have discovered, not a pleasant time.

The actual tasting and sipping and swallowing of the drinks was lovely indeed. It was a hot evening, with two hours of sun yet to go—the kind of sun that makes you sweat inside five minutes of standing beneath it. I've no doubt that the icy nature of the drink is what helped the banana-flavored-ness of it all slip down my throat so smoothly. That, and the strength of the drink. These cocktails—and I attribute this to the sun and sweet—injected an immediate feeling of wooziness directly into the bloodstream and, thus, the brain.

Cut to two hours later. The scene: Me, sinking ever deeper into my high heels, stumbling about the poolside patio, saying my goodbyes so I could get the hell out of there and into a chair, somewhere, anywhere, and have a big platter of food plopped in front of my face.

The Dopey Monkeys were taking hold.

I guzzled a lot of water at dinner and ate plenty of food—two activities that, in general, are supposed to ease the effects of the drink. But this time, for some reason, these tactics didn't work. By the time I got home, around 10:30 p.m., I was, quite literally, passing out.

I tried to stay up to read some very important creative documents produced by my talented better half, but I was so overtaken by the aftermath of the monkey drinks that I found myself tipping over and apologizing, "I'm sorry, but I have to stop. I can't go on!" (BAD girlfriend, bad.)

My head could not hit my pillow soon enough. I vaguely remember some silly pillow talk ensuing, but alas, as of this evening, I can't remember what was said (a failure of the highest order).

What I do remember is waking up. And not being able to wake up. And muttering something nonsensical into my pillow to the effect of, "No get up. Stay home and break the rules. Okay. Okay."

Of course, I didn't stay home (or break any rules, I hope), because I'm too responsible to call in sick on a semi-deadline day. I did, however, vow this morning that it would be a long, long time before I would consume a Dopey Monkey again—a vow I proceeded to semi-break this afternoon, when I agreed to hit the same poolside bar at a date to be determined with a pal who did not have the pleasure of attending the happy hour last night and therefore missed out on the banana-flavored trauma I was lucky enough to endure.

Me: "I'm warning you: Major hangover ramifications."

Him: "I want to try one anyway."

Me: "Okay. Deal."

!!!

Thus, it is proved that the Dopey Monkey possesses magical memory-loss-causing powers in addition to being the one banana-flavored thing I have ever enjoyed spending two hours consuming. And because of this, I hereby suggest a name change, to better reflect the nature of the drink:

To the rest of you, it may be known as the Dopey Monkey.

To me, it will always be the Banana Cocktail of Death.