Shattolott City, 1932
The man who loved onions.
He loved onions
Loved em. Really.
He loooved them. If you catch my drift.
The authorities frowned on his vegetable affections, but he would not stop. I sing joy monkey monkey at his happy artifice.
But in this country, I did not eat.
About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer and writer who never gave up dadaism. Also, he never wore that frilly gown. Never!
Hermitage Villas, 3000 BC
I’m in the land of the Amazons. The women are giant. And cruel. They play a game called “Truncheons and Skulls” with the men.
The winners levitate the unfortunate survivors; these poor devils are forced to laugh at their ignominious floating before they are consumed by carnivorous haberdashery.
I weep. My cigar is flaccid. All-told, I am sorry to have left the boat.
About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer and writer who never gave up dadaism. Also, he was fond of mulit-layered conundrums that could be fried with garlic.
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:
Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.
And a link to the file if the embedded player doesn’t work properly — The Monkey’s Tail … by Mark A. Rayner
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
Dr. Fleshrender had been trying to learn ancient Egyptian mummification techniques for years, but he’d yet to master even the most basic principles.
First of all, he just wasn’t into all that yucky stuff with the internal organs and putting them in jars. Coptic (a feel, heh) or not.
Secondly, he found the mixture of soda ash, bicarbonate and household salt he was meant to bath his mummies in just unpleasant. Natron my ass, he’d mutter.
Thirdly, most of his volunteers did not want to have a red-hot poker shoved up their nose so he could remove their brains. (Though he was keen to try.)
He did enjoy the wrapping process though.
Was that a smile on Jeremy’s face, or was the photographer from Interstellar Geographic just anthropomorphizing?
He couldn’t even say why he’d named it Jeremy. It just seemed right. Could the simian before him actually feel the way that he did, think philosophical thoughts? Did the Hyper-Baboon have hopes, dreams? Was it possible that the creature even had a conception of time and space?
Then the other monkey triggered the landmine; pieces of baboon flesh scattered in all directions.
Jeremy grinned, walked up to the photographer and said: “Actually, I prefer Jerome, and that fucker was sleeping with my wife.”
You will find more monkey madness at the Carnival of the Insanities. And if baboonish humor is your thing, then check out humor-blogs.com. Photo credit: Broma.
The O’Reilly Boys finally caught up with Old Judge Turgid at the Annual Pecos River Ride and Chili Jamboree. Salathial had hung their older brother Seamus “The Tinkle” O’Reilly just the year before and they were plum angry.
But Old Judge Turgid, he didn’t mind none. In addition to having a giant noggin’ that made his ten-gallon hat look like a Boston dandy’s bowler, Salathial Turgid had a legendary intestinal track capable of containing the very vapors of Hell.
He knew it. The O’Reilly Boys knew it. And the terrified denizens of Pecos knew it.
So when they put the Colt up against his temple, he laughed and said, “Boys, the only thing keeping my sphincter shut is my continued vo-lition. I’d give you the count of ten to va-moose but I suspect one of the town-folk will kill you first.”
Thanks to Michelle Jones for her creative photo and to the Hole-in-the-Mattress Gang.