fiction reflects reality.

I read a comic called Joe and Monkey. It's done by the same bloke who did No Pants Tuesday, and it's awesome, continually. I mean that. Awesome.


Anyway, my dad and I were having a conversation the other day, and he was telling me about his younger days.

"Did I ever tell you about Auld Joe and his monkey?" he asked.

I'll admit it, i was ever so slightly stunned.

"No," I replied. "Go on."

It seemed that my father used to mow the lawn for Auld Joe. It was roughly the size of two football fields, apparently, although the old man does tend to exaggerate a bit. This bloke was slightly eccentric, and regularly drunk. Apparently on a particular hot day, Young Wullie went into the house to get a drink or something, and Joe gave him a banana and said 'that should give you the strength to keep going for the rest of today.'

So yeah. Joe had a monkey. And this monkey was rather spectacular. It knew tricks, and such. And Joe loved his monkey, and would talk to it. it was, shall we say, his only companion. You might think it became almost human to him.

One day, Joe ran into the police station, ratted like you wouldn't believe, in a blind panic. He was ranting and raving about a murder, he'd killed someone, there was a fight, he was dead, buried in his garden and he couldn't contain his guilt any more.

The police took him home, and checked the garden. They found a small grave, and inside, sure enough, a corpse. Apparently Auld Joe had gotten extremely drunk, had a 'fight' with his monkey, killed it and buried it.



...it's a shame we don't have people like this any more except in stories.