LETS suggest something entirely ridiculous. Let’s suggest you accidentally burnt down half of the Ubud Monkey Forest after a monkey onesie party went horribly wrong.
You sob out a “why did this happen!” as you toast marshmellows from the top of a burning tree. Was it the drinking too much alcohol and fire twirling at a party of monkeys, with guest names including “Jo-Jo” and “Mojo” and “Rocky Balboa”? Maybe, but it occurs to you that since becoming monkey king, you have neglected church attendance.
You used your Sundays to sleep in. Or worse. You actually enjoyed it by watching AFL/NRL/football/bowls and complaining about the play on Facebook. You got the TV working by throwing the extension lead onto the nearest powerline. Classy.
Adding to the ridiculousness, let’s also say you don’t go to sleep last Saturday night, because of overwhelming guilt. Let’s say this guilt motivates you to Google the location of the only church in Ubud.
This actually happened to you? Wow. Coincidence. It happened to me.
Jo-Jo was intrigued by the concept of church. She wanted us all to go. There was no way I was taking 193 monkeys to church, one of them being an irritable Chompy with a hangover. If it was a Pentacostal I might have, for the hell of it, but not a Baptist.
“Why not, Chewey?” Jo-Jo asked.
“Church not for monkeys,” I said.
But they were so desperate, they tailed me to church. They stalked me by taking 49 taxis and the lead taxi told Wayan the driver to “follow that moped!” The other taxi drivers were ordered to “follow that taxi, who is following the other taxi, who is following the other taxi following the moped.”
I enjoyed church, in a bored sort of way. I didn’t know the monkeys were all sitting behind me until Chompy put his hand up at a crucial time to dedicate his life to Christ.
So we were there for ages as the pastor taught him how to find stuff in the bible. Jo-Jo became so impatient she thought it would be fun to help herself to the wine in the little communion glasses.