Okay, it's early evening as we open at the Boulle Behavioral Lab in (Alex) Richmond, Mass. -- thank you for the shout-out -- and once inside, we see a white laboratory-coated, possibly evil, slightly rat-like man stride down a long corridor, past a paramilitary armed guard, and into a room. Inside, a man is reciting a monologue from Hamlet (it's the one when he's holding the skull, the "alas, poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio," one, but the writers cut right to the good part about death being like sleep, and shuffling off this mortal coil) and then we pan down to a white card that says "Hamlet, performed by Edward Woodward," and it could be the guy from The Wicker Man, who was no doubt a guy who got teased a lot when he was a kid. Try this one: what do you call a guy with three pieces of wood on his head? Edward Woodward. Say it fast, it works. Then, boom: we see the room is full of monkeys, typing. Maybe a million monkeys, even. They chatter and jump and type nonsense, and the ferrety lab-coated guy takes notes, until he comes up behind one chimp and sees that it's typing Edward's recitation word for freaking word. A gasp and dropping of clipboard follows, and he runs off to tell someone.

Moments later, we hear The Specials, or The Meters, or the Bob Marley band playing a merry sort of reggae number. The lab-coat guy comes back with other lab-coated folk, and we see the chimp's screen is all gibberish. Dang, guess no one taught them Ctrl-S. We get another gasp face, and faces of rebuke from the other lab-coatees, then the chimps are left alone again. When the Shakespeare-loving chimp sees he is alone with his mite-eating kind, he deletes the screen, and starts typing again, this time, "A Short History of My Demeaning Captivity." Hee. That monkey sure showed them.

Oh, say can you see? The credits.

A piano tinkles genteelly at a fancy hotel in Baltimore. A martini is poured, people are elegantly dressed, and oh, there's everyone's favorite, Yves. She says, en Français, thanks for the drink, and the swellegant guy who paid for it replies, "rien," which means literally "nothing," or "think nothing of it," but gets translated as "you're welcome." So, they banter en Françias, he hits on her, and she slides over her room key card and sashays away. What an invitation.