This is a story about a species that has human characteristics but isn't human.  It's a story about the conflict between humans and the savage beasts who rule the planet.  It's a story about heartless tyrants who treat humans as slaves, ordering them here and there; making them cater to their every whim.  No, it's not the Planet of the Apes movie.  It's my family.

It's uncanny how similar our home life is to the original Planet of the Apes movie, starring Charlton Heston.  In the original film, three astronauts found themselves marooned on a strange planet where apes ruled and humans were mute animals.  In our home, two parents find themselves marooned in a strange house where children rule and we are mute -- or at least we can't get in a word edgewise because our kids won't shut up.

It baffles me why Tim Burton would spend $100 million to remake The Planet of the Apes when he could have reshot the film in my home for $29.95.  We own a video camera.  Hiring expensive make-up artists seems like a waste of money when allowing my kids to eat chocolate ice cream and rub their faces in our dryer's lint filter would produce a fine simian effect.  Mr. Burton wouldn't even have had to spend money writing a script since the plot plays out naturally, day after day.

Scene 1: The creatures who rule our lives
I arrive home from work, open the front door and enter a world I don't recognize.  When I left just nine hours earlier, the house had four walls and a floor.  Now the four walls still exist but they are connected by a sea of toys that extends out the back door and into the neighbor's yard.  There is only one human being in sight.  Except for the tormented look on her face, she looks vaguely familiar -- almost wife-like.  She sits mute on the couch with her head in her hands.  I ask her how her day was.  She glares. 

All of a sudden the silence is broken by a thunderous noise.  The woman becomes terrified, screams "They're back!" and hides behind the recliner.  The noise sounds like a pack of screaming monkeys beating on pots and pans while dragging a bed down the stairs.  I look up to see a pack of screaming monkeys beating on pots and pans while dragging a bed down the stairs.

If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading immediately.  The next scene is so graphic it should not be read by minors.

There are two monkeys. The larger one is obviously the leader. It's ice-cream-scum, dryer-lint-laden fingers reach out and touch me, as if to satiate its curiosity about my clean clothes.

"Take your hands off me, you're filthy," I bellow, causing the smaller monkey to gasp in horror and shriek, "It speaks!"

The smaller monkey is wearing nothing but Teletubbie underwear.  He wields a golf club in one hand and holds a headless Barbie doll in the other. 

"Look!" he screams, "I made one of those things from the store!"

"What things?" I ask, finding it unbelievable that I can hold a conversation with such a barbaric creature.

"You know," he says, shoving the decapitated Barbie in my face, "One of those things with clothes but no head."

"A mannequin?" I ask, disgusted.

"That's it.  I turned Barbie into a mannequin," he says proudly.

I am afraid to ask what he did with Barbie's head since it might cause the film to move from a "PG-13" rating to "R."  I mentally make a note to hide Black Beauty and any other toy horse in the house so he can't play out a certain scene from The Godfather.  I don't want him making me any offers I can't refuse.

The film continues with the typical chase scenes in which the woman and I attempt to hide, unsuccessfully, from the monkeys.  They catch us and put us through hideous scientific experiments, such as asking the question, "Why?" hundreds of times in a row to see if it will cause permanent brain damage.  It does.

The Grand Finale
In the original movie's final scene, Charlton Heston rides a horse along a deserted beach.  Off in the distance he sees half of the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand and screams as he realizes he is, in fact, on Earth.  My home-made version would include a similar dazzling finale but without the high-budget props.

As I sit on a large pile of dress-up clothes, I push aside a Cinderella dress to discover my favorite chair underneath.  Realizing I am actually in my own home, I wouldn't scream -- I'd tell the kids to wash the ice cream and lint off their faces, coax my wife out from behind the chair and order a pizza for dinner.

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