Archive | Monkeys!
Larry Miller’s Five Levels of Drinking
I love this routine by Larry Miller; it’s great storytelling, and it reminds me of my idiot friends. We went so far as to name these levels, including some names for specific drinks within them. (In fact, it is the basis for the structure of my second novel, Marvellous Hairy.) Tomorrow I’ll outline these in a fuller post, but for now, please enjoy Miller’s take:
Don’t read this until you’ve watched the video (spoiler):
I love the description of the morning-after sun as “God’s flashlight”, and yes, I too have uttered the vow (with the extra part):
“I swear I will never do this again, as long as I live. And this time I mean it.”
If you enjoyed this, and you like listening to podcasts, you should really check out Miller’s weekly rant/stream-of-consciousness storytime, This Week with Larry Miller.
Alltop always means it.
Ask General Kang: Miss Manners says it has to be 97 degrees out before I don’t have to wear nylons. What do you think?
I think you should tell me what that is in Celsius. 35? 36?
Never mind, it doesn’t matter, because that Miss Manners is a complete bitch. How DARE she tell you what to do? I’m only offering helpful advice, but she has decrees. Well, I think you should wear whatever you want. It’s still a free country, right?
Of course, I’m not sure how long it will be a free country, particularly once I’ve got my new Cyber-Simian Strike Force up to fluff.
You know I would never tell you what to wear. I think these sartorial decisions are the thing that make us different from the lower animals. (You know, non-primates.) That said, I do require the blue evil flying monkeys in my Air Force to wear their cute little silver helmets, for their own safety, of course.
So, I can wear white after Labor Day too?
Only if you want to look like a Russian hooker.
Alltop prefers looking like a prostitute from Belarus. Originally published in August, 2005. Seriously, check out the post number.
Baby existentialism
This explains so much.
Alltop was more of a baby solipsist.
A humourous vintage photograph
After this photo was taken an alien zygote burst from this child’s chest at a tremendous velocity, blasting through the watermelon slice a moment later, and then running down the street; the photographer experienced years of insomnia, heaving drinking, and eventually, suicide.
Now you feel bad for laughing, don’t you?
Alltop doesn’t.
Bonus Audio: The Monkey’s Tail…
This story has been published a few times: first in Trunk Stories #2 (Dec. 2004), and then it was reprinted in Broken Pencil #29 (2005) and most recently in Yareah Magazine, (Feb. 2009). I thought I would repost it here in it’s entirety and add this is audio version, as a bona fide of my long obsession with monkey-related fiction.
Here’s the audio:
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And a link to the file if the embedded player doesn’t work properly — The Monkey’s Tail … by Mark A. Rayner
The Monkey’s Tail, as Told by Marcel Duchamp the Day After Charles Lindbergh Landed at Le Bourget Field
by Mark A. Rayner
I had this friend who was obsessed with having a monkey tail grafted to his ass. Actually, to call him a The Monkey’s Tail….friend is stretching the truth. Toulouse was more of a colleague. An ex-colleague, if you get my meaning.
He went to great lengths to achieve his ends. At first, he was convinced that it would be possible to grow a tail. After all, we used to have them: they are part of our vestigial anatomy. He knew a biologist from Pigalle who was willing to help pull out his tail bone. Not literally. No, he would attempt to stretch it outwards by digitally manipulation.
Oh yes, it was quite painful, but Toulouse was bent on it. He was mad for the monkey tail, wasn’t he?
Eventually, Toulouse accepted the anatomist’s ministrations were not going to work, and went in search of other answers. He tried occult methods: spells, potions and unguents. It was about this time people started to avoid him. The unguents were too pungent by far. Yes, even for Paris in summertime.
Finally, Doctor V moved into town. You must know him. The one who grafts primate glands into the body cavity. Yes, for men unable to … I see you’ve heard of him. His cure was often worse than the disease, if being unable to . . . could be called a disease. It could be restful. Several flaccid gentlemen died, but septicemia did not frighten Toulouse.
He asked the surgeon to graft a tail to him. The tail? It came from a monkey — a Barbary Ape, if you must know the details.
Yes. Yes. It did come from Gibralter. Normally Dr. V. worked with chimps, which have no tails, so he had to find a species with a tail, no matter how underdeveloped. The poor beast had been living with Madame Sélavy, the noted philatelist and prodigious eater of *cerveaux de chèvre*. Hmm. Yes, nasty, I agree. Cow brains are better. In a fit of whimsy she had named the creature “Alonsy.” The little beast was adept at licking stamps and quite useful. So Dr. V. returned the creature to its mistress after he’d removed the small, pathetic vestigial tail. Covered with wiry brown hair it was.
Oh, yes, Toulouse was ecstatic when Dr. V showed him the new appendage prior to the operation. I imagine the Russian must have looked like some demented maître d’, presenting the severed appurtenance on a silver platter. Yes. Yes! The ether was the wine and the surgical tools the cutlery!
By all accounts the monkey was happier after this interlude. (Though they are called Barbary Apes, they are really monkeys you know.) Yes. Yes. Alonsy flew into paroxysms of monkey song, chattering gleefully; he moistened postage with aplomb and joy thereafter. He was much improved.
My ex-colleague did not fare as well, but such is the price of progress.
The End
Originally published: Trunk Stories #2, Dec. 2004
Reprinted: Broken Pencil #29, 2005, Yareah Magazine, February Issue
© 2004, Mark A. Rayner