No sooner am I out of my cave and shielding my little black button eyes from the blazing hot reflections off
the Olema shelf when I see a band of Masai warriors astride a galloping herd of giant giraffes, standing on their backs like circus riders, primitive reins of wildebeest sinew woven through the nostrils of the creatures. The long, brown, dusty tallywhackers of the graceful Masai are waving like snake kites in the breeze as they ride up shouting "Run! Run Meester Sock Monkey, the Bolinians are coming!" I scratch my little sweat sock head and peer as far as I can through the waving heat of the distant mirage when I see them: there must be hundreds of the squat, anvil-headed midgets, running and kicking up the desert dust, little blue billy clubs in their chubby six-fingered mitts, each of them intoning a low guttural chant: "woomba woomba woomba".
(Sing to the tune of "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp")
"You know it's hard out here for a sock monkey
when everybody thinks you're a banana junky
every time I try to get down and funky
there be a whole lotta monkeys talkin' shit"