That's right, live people. Thousands of 'em. The bastards are everywhere! It's a jungle out there, if ya know what I'm sayin'. I can't walk down the friggin' street without live people gettin' in my way, lookin' at me funny, blockin' my light when I'm tryin' to read the paper, gettin' on my case. I'm sick of it.

I go downtown to a nice little speakeasy that caters to primates, mostly chimps, bonobos, a few baboons, and some gorillas. What do I find behind the bar? A human guy! What's he doin' takin' an ape's job away? Things are bad enough already without these damn human bozos comin' in everywhere where they ain't wanted and takin' over the joint. I'm sick of it. I get no respect from these jerks, because they think they are King Bwana and I'm just a hairy ape. There isn't one of them that can disassemble a gat with his toes or scale the side of a brick building with his bare hands and feet. Not one. They are as useless as three warts on an elephant's ass, the lot of them.

Buncha self-important too-tall stuffed shirts, that's what they are.

There's just one thing wrong with this place. Too many live people. Way too many.