Sure, you could TMP, train a monkey to run a press, grab a roller with his goofy chimpanzee paw, ink the plate, then seize the handle and set the works in motion: knock off a steadily growing pile of fresh print like some Guttenburg missing link.
Though that baboon would have a dickens of a time trying to set type, pluck each letter from the box and finesse them into place. All without an opposable thumb.
Easier for him to roll the cigarette he's now smoking, drooped from the curled lower lip, hunched over a typewriter as he hunts and pecks, tap, tap, tapping, gently rapping on your John Malkovich skull, brass pounding through these Morse code minutes, coagulated into the stuttering fragments of a tersely telegraphed prose poem such as this. Stop.
