Envision the scenario:

Johnny Lab Coat saunters into the laboratory on a sunny Shanghai morning (OK, so maybe his name is Li Zhen Huan) wiping the last of his breakfast rice from his chin. Shrugging off the latest in a series of blistering “disagreements” with his so-called better half, Johnny (Li Zhen) gathers his notes from the previous day, and, tipping a wink to nearly every cutie poised in front of a Petri dish, he approaches a cage marked #596454 and checks the clipboard hanging cavalierly from the front. He scratches his head. He checks the clipboard again. He opens the front of the cage and nudges the lethargic monkey inside with distant curiosity. He lifts the primate’s left eyelid; he shines a light, and then lets it snap shut. Again he scratches his head. Somewhere inside of his mind, he makes a decision. Another part of him agrees. Another corner isn’t so sure, but that part of him isn’t in charge of paying the rent, so Johnny Lab Coat pulls the droopy monkey out of the cage and places him indifferently on the sterile counter.

The lights are very bright.

Johnny almost walks away, but then stops and, grabbing a restraining stand from the immaculate cupboards above, balances the sad monkey up inside, closing the cold latch around the its neck. The monkey struggles, but not much.

Johnny Huan crosses the lab in short, but purposeful, strides, and collects several containers full of pig fat, red dye #107, something ethyl alcohol-ish, and a sulfuric acid mixture of a patented nature. He eyeballs this amount and that, mixing them into a fairly standard beaker, and makes his way back over to Mr. Monkey. He calls over a leggy assistant, and asks her to record his observations after he spreads the shit he just made all over the monkey’s lips. As she turns to grab the clipboard dangling from the front of the cage, she pinches his little ass and says brightly, “Sure, Johnny!”

Johnny Zhen Huan reddens slightly and says, “Xie xie, baby.”

Johnny digs into his pocket and pulls out a brush applicator, removes the plastic sheath, and as the leggy assistant turns back to him with the clipboard, he tickles her playfully under the chin with the soft bristles. They both giggle sheepishly.

The lights in the laboratory drone with buzzing electricity.

Johnny smears the brush with the reddish concoction by dabbing it in the beaker with Bob Ross aplomb, and teases the assistant by feigning a move to dab it on her nose. She shrieks with delight, and throws her hands in front of her face. “No! Get that gross shit away from me, Johnny! You’re so nasty!” Johnny Zhen laughs out loud, and without a second thought, smears the nasty red shit all over the monkey’s lips.

The air is immediately rent with shrieks of pain as the monkey suddenly snaps to life, peeing all over the counter as he struggles, thrashing against the binds that hold him, smoke wafting from the angry blisters spreading across his furry, almost child-like face. The restraining stand jerks to and fro, finally slipping from the top of the sterile counter and clattering to the floor with the monkey still clamped helplessly inside. As a small amount of blood pools across the floor under the monkey’s broken nose, Johnny Zhen Huan nudges the wretched creature clinically with his toe.

“Most interesting,” says Johnny.

“Oh Mr. Monkey, you better mind your manners!” chides the leggy assistant with juvenile good humor as she scribbles furiously on the clipboard. “Johnny, you want me to say that he fell off the table?”

“Huh? Oh. Nah. Let’s get Shi Dun Wang up here to clean up…” he pulls the clipboard still held in vivacious assistant’s hand closer to his face so he can see more clearly, “#596454.” Johnny scratches his head one last time. “I think I need to cut the dye some. The color is terrible. Let’s get another set-up ready.”

*******

It’s a sad scenario, no? If you’re anything like me, your heart goes out to that poor assistant as she deals with the advances of the lascivious lab tech. But that’s not what I want to write about. I want to focus for a second on the monkey. I think you’ve probably gathered by my narration of the fictitious situation above that I think the monkey’s getting a bit of a raw deal. And it’s not only the apes of the world getting crapola smeared all over their faces for the advancement of the sexiness of women everywhere–think of the dogs, rats, and mice. And even if you’re all like, “Hey Jose, come on now, who gives a rat’s ass about mice?” well, you know we all kind of give a shit about the dogs and monkeys. At the very least, the rodents cost money, hombre.

It doesn’t have to be this way—and as you might have guessed by now, Jose el Retardo has an answer for you: they’re called hardened criminals, baby, and America makes them by the truckload. Nationally, in the year 2005, we incarcerated 726 per 100,000 residents. Neat. So, what does that mean? Well, Mr. Lazy, let me pick up my calculator and tell you. It is estimated that the United States currently holds about 300 million souls. That means that you are talking about over 2 million people in our prisons. Let’s say that the number of people in jail for violent crimes hovers around 50%. Now you’re down to a million. If you want to cut the number in half again for repeat offenders, well, that’s ok by me. And cut that by three quarters to isolate the repeat offending premeditated murderers, rapists, and child molestors—which I think is WAY low-balling, by the way—you’ve got AT THE VERY LEAST 125,000 test subjects at your disposal. That’s a lot of hairspray.

Would you like to know how many monkeys are currently incarcerated for violent crimes in this country? Would you be surprised to find that the answer is zero? If you are, well then, you’re a complete idiot.

I can hear somebody in the back of the room shift slightly in their chair, uncomfortable, yet still on the fence. “Jose, I can see why you’re saying these kinds of things, but I think I could only be comfortable testing our new-fangled cold remedies on the worst of the worst.”

The number of people on death row as of 2006: 3,228. It’s a gold mine, people.

Your average inmate sentenced to die spends an average of ten years on death row, in a small cell for 23 hours a day, every day. The least we can do is give them a way to pay us back for the money we’re putting out. Those fancy jumpsuits and scratchy sheets aren’t free, folks; neither is the toilet paper. Can’t we give these poor souls the chance to help us cure cancer, legionnaire’s disease, and chicken pox? Imagine wiping out hemorrhoids forever.

Let’s not forget how much faster we can find the answers we so desperately long for by not having to wonder whether or not the new-formulation of Tums will work the same way on humans as it did on a bunch of rodents. Jesus, do rats even GET gas? And if they do, who gives a shit?

Here’s irony for you: testing anti-addiction drugs on rapists so we don’t have to lock up a bunch of fucking 22 year-old junkies anymore. Now THAT’S justice, people. And if you think your god is going to hate you for it (like he didn’t hate us for playing god and putting people to death in the first place), then click here and take a look at this.

Tags: Animal testing, breakfast rice, capitol punishment, death row, drug testing, hemorrhoids, incarceration, Li Zhen Huan, Tums