Monkeys make horrible spouses. Or at least, that was what Mrs. Tucan advised me, as she sat in my (dare I say it?) tastefully decorated canopy nest, way up high in the treetops of the Amazon (the richest place in town, if I do say so myself).

We were having tea, a usual chatty Saturday afternoon visit, blabbing our beaks away at the latest gossip that had passed through our feathers.

Today, the conversation turned to the most inappropriate daughter of Perpetua Schwann, a dear friend of ours who just happened to be the not-so-proud parent of one rebellious teenage bird of paradise. She was quite (dare I say it again?) slutty, had tattoos all over her feathers, and had just eloped with a screeching monkey (lead singer of that horrible band that was popular with the “hip and with-it” teenagers in the forest)!

Yes, things weren’t looking up for our dear Perpetua Schwann. Then again, it wasn’t her fault her daughter had married a monkey! (I’ve heard they make horrible spouses, although I’m not sure where!)