This week, Artie's on Sock Monkee's couch, where he gets a taste of his own medicine
People are terrible. It's not an unnatural impulse to want to strangle them.
Artie is tired of all the bullshit. Bradley at the office is an incessant small-talker, society as a whole is filled with device-laden millennial zombies, there is simply no hope. But because killing people is generally a bad thing to do, fortunately, there is therapy. Is it just me, or was this guy on Star Trek, Six Feet Under and Masters of Sex?
Whatever, he's calling himself Artie now and he just wants someone to listen to him. Check out his first session with "Dr. Monkee."
Sock Monkee always starts a session by being the exemplar of the attentive listener that all Harvard-educated monkey doctors can only strive to emulate. But as Artie's concerns grow graver (and, to Monkee, more boring), the malevolent sock can only try to amuse himself by perusing the pages of J.Crew and texting his friends. Wow. This monkee is into Italian cashmere. Btw, the "Just kill me now" text is an expert twist of foreshadowing to Artie's demise…
But Monkee's methods, however nebulous, are taking effect on Artie. He claims to be able to be himself "for the first time" in Monkee's presence. But he takes this freedom for granted by violating the one sacred territory of our beloved monkey: his banana bowl. Oh. No. He. Didn't.
I've never quite seen something so disturbing in my life as a close-up shot on a banana string hanging from an old guy's mouth. And yet, I can't look away. And crazy as it sounds, Artie's rant is so dead on. But what's really disturbing is Monkee's increasingly close button-eyed death stare. I would be scared, too.
In the end, the pressure is just too high, and we, humble audience members, can only assume that Artie is a goner. Never feel safe inside a therapist's office, especially if that therapist has a heart of sock. Oh God. That ending is unexpected. And classic.