“Why do an infinite number of monkeys always want to type ‘Hamlet’? What’s wrong with ‘Macbeth’? Why not something by Dickens or Poe?” - Tom Knapp

Mesa, Arizona is a suburb of Phoenix and the 37th biggest city in America, larger in population that Miami, Minneapolis or Cleveland. The HoHoKam (meaning – seriously – “All Used Up”) Indians lived in the area 2,000 years ago and built the original canal system. Mesa was founded by the Mormons in 1986, possibly earlier, depending on whose carbon dating data you believe and its sister city is Kaiping, China. Except for country singer Waylon Jennings being buried there, the only famous person to claim Mesa as home is the criminal Ernesto Miranda, after whom the 1966 Supreme Court Miranda search ruling was named.

About five years ago, Mesa flirted with the idea to become the only city in America to hire a capuchin for their Special Weapons and Tactics team.

You know.

S.W.A.T.?

OK. Everybody put down the book – you monkeys included – and let’s dance merrily around Starbucks for several minutes to the theme of the cult classic TV show, “S.W.A.T.”

do-do-dooo – do-do-DOOMP!”

Back in 2005, the federal government – our federal government – looked into qualifying Mesa for a $100,000 grant to start a pilot program – and I’m quoting official news sources here: “to train one (1) monkey.”

And people say they’re wasting our tax dollars in Washington.

Instead of a career in journalism, I nearly went into law enforcement. To this day I wonder what sort of officer I would have made. I think sharing a patrol car with a monkey would have made me a better cop.

We’ve got a crisis in Downtown Mesa. An armor-plated van the size of a toaster rolls up. The back doors swing open. A little teeny tiny monkey with a hairy happy face, dressed in Barbie-sized black combat fatigues and size .001 U.N. combat boots scampers out. He does a fetching little shoulder roll and comes up with a .05 mm Glock and menacing stare.

“Mighty glad you’re here, partner!” I say, crouched down behind my regular size armor-plated S.W.A.T. van.

“Hostage situation in that over there.”

S.W.A.T. monkey’s shoulders droop.

“Rrrookey rikkey eeekki EEKI reeechy?!” the capuchin screeches.

Which means: “Cripes. It’s Mesa. How many retard banana sandwiches did YOU have for lunch? WHICH tacky lime green faux mission adobe building?”

“Hey. Don’t go rhesus-pieces on me, Pal. They’re in that Piggly Wiggly yon,” I reply. “I’ll sneak around back. You climb up that palm tree – not stopping for dates this time – and go through the air conditioning duct!”

Before he vaults into action, with S.W.A.T. camaraderie, I rub my chin and yell after him: “HEY! You missed a spot shaving!”

He waves a good-natured monkey paw at me.

With his tiny sniper’s rifle on his back and smoke bombs the size of grapes attached to his belt, he scampers across the boulevard and up the tree. Moments later, we’re inside. With a red laser sight hitting the perp right between the eyes, my partner yells, in monkey: “Keeeeeeeeccchhhh!!” which, of course, means “DROP THE WEAPON, YOU LOW-LIFE ¡#*€‡!ing A-DOUBLE-DOLLAR SIGNS SYNONYM FOR THE MIDDLE OF A DONUT ADAM HENRY BEFORE I BLOW YOU TO KINGDOM COME!!”

Panicked, the crook turns and fires a shot at S.W.A.T. Monkey, narrowly missing him.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” I yell to my partner. “YOU’RE IN MESA! THIS GUY DOESN’T SPEAK ENGLISH! HE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND YOU!”

Before the perp can get off another shot, S.W.A.T. monkey yells:

“Eeeky-eeky, Vous avez, imbecile! Ta mere est belge!” which, in MonkeyFrench, means “You missed, idiot! Your mother is Belgian!”

People. I assure you. I would drop out of the writing business and never come back if I had the chance to be on the Mesa P.D. and issue the command: “Cuff him and read him his rights, S.W.A.T. Monkey!”

The little fella would doff his little black helmet, look up, blink and smile with those cute little monkey teeth.

Isn’t that so lovable it just makes you want to hug him?

Well don’t.

As a member of Mesa’s elite rescue and hostage unit, S.W.A.T. Monkey probably knows more than a little about self-defense.

“Ow! Crap! The little bastard bit me!” says Scott Smith, mayor of Mesa at the daily city awards honor ceremony. “I was just trying to put this medal of valor around the little beggar’s half-inch neck…”

As S.W.A.T. Monkey’s partner, I’d raise a hand, stop-sign style in front of Mesa’s highest elected official’s nose. “It’s OK, sir. He just thought you were making a move for his miniature police band radio he keeps on his left shoulder hooked to his little miniature bulletproof vest. Make a private call on your own time, Your Honor!”

I’d look at my partner, S.W.A.T. Monkey. We’d look at our fellow manly S.W.A.T. compadres all dressed in black body armor. All of us would throw back our heads and laugh like we’re in a beer commercial. Then S.W.A.T. Monkey and I would exchange knowing smiles, wink and exchange the ol’ thumbs up sign.

It’s probably too late in my life for me to be thinking about changing careers, even it were to partner up with the best darn cop monkey on the planet.

Too bad Mesa never got their S.W.A.T. monkey. It might have opened the door to hiring other, larger species of primates.

Like a gorilla.

A gorilla, specifically, a grumpy 600-pound silverback male, could be most useful in questioning people. You lock him in the Q&A room and give him a clear Plexiglas baton with which to beat suspects so that while the incident is being videotaped, it looks like he’s just wagging his finger at the bloody pulp while chastising, “No, no, no, no, NO!…”

Life imitates art.

Eons ago, Saturday Night Live had a 10-second snippet. It was a faux NBC fall preview. A slide of the Pope and a chimpanzee appeared. The booth announcer in his patented sleazy carnival barker voice teased:

“Coming this Fall… He’s the Pope. He’s a chimp. They’re cops.”

I don’t watch much mainstream TV, but I’d certainly tune in on a regular basis to view a knock-off of His Holiness and S.W.A.T. monkey battling evil in the Arizona desert.

The Pope would still be wearing his formal robes, but they’d be camouflage tan and he’d have some special weapon, like a magic incense holder on a big swinging chain.

I see the pair confronting terrorists tiptoeing across the border with an atomic warhead. S.W.A.T. Monkey grabs the device (which, for new downsized production-value TV purposes, is Tuperware painted black) and scampers into Mexico. He gives the little fizzling sandwich container/nuclear device the sideways heave-ho and it lands atop several hundred drug lords.

Ka-blooey. Orange flames, drug lord body parts, SUV tires and the obligatory generic 55-gallon barrels fly everywhere in fiery slow motion.

S.W.A.T. Monkey would have to be injured so the Pope gets to hold the little limp monkey body in his hands, look up to heaven and angrily scream:

“WWWWWHHHHHHYYYYY!?!?!?!”

On the convenient side, as Pope, he’d be right there to give S.W.A.T. monkey the Last Rights.

But then, drops from a rare Mesa rain plop onto the simian’s penny-sized forehead. He blinks, then smiles weakly. The Pope looks up from his sobbing.

“My buddy!” says His Holiness, laughing. In a thick Irish John Huston brogue, he jocularly commands: “That’ll be Three Our Fathers and some little monkey push-ups for fooling me!”

We fade to black, but not before hearing the original S.W.A.T. theme song:

“Do-do-DOOO… do-do-dooo… do-do-dooo…

do-do-dooo – do-do-DOOMP!”

John Boston Note: Since 2005, to their undying shame, Mesa, Arizona still flaunts federal discrimination laws. While employing several police dogs, the city has yet to hire a single monkey onto their crack S.W.A.T. unit.

John Boston- Commentary

John Boston is an award winning local writer. He recently won Best Humor Columnist in North America which was his 118th career award. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon.