Posts Tagged With: Ubud

Death to the Monkey King

It has been a number of weeks since the Monkey King has posted on WordPress. There are some good reasons to this. And it falls to me – a talking, computer literate monkey –  to narrate the story.

This is the story of the fall of the Monkey King.

Read it well:

It’s tough to describe the character of my former lord. Some describe him as a tyrant. To others; a simpleton. An Australian disillusioned by the wealth, pretension and grandeur in his country. I don’t believe it. To me, he wasn’t a friend, a kind soul, a saviour.

He was my boss.

So I hated him. Even though he liked me.

“You’re my favourite monkey, Mojo! You’re the pick of the litter,” the Monkey King said over and over (sorry to the monkeys who are reading this, I guess you weren’t that important in the MK’s eyes. He never mentioned you to me at any rate, so you couldn’t have been important).

But I had to tell the fool that all the monkeys in the forest weren’t related, so they couldn’t be in a single litter. Besides, monkeys aren’t puppies. Or cats. They are monkeys. I don’t believe monkeys relate to litters. Unless the monkeys are throwing bananas and rubbish on the ground. As in; “stop littering, you stupid monkeys!”

Some compare the Monkey King (our lord Chewbacca) to looking like Jim Morrison.

Jim Morrison

Nah. That’s not true. Jim Morrison has sex appeal. Not that I was sexually attracted to Morrison. It wouldn’t work out. He’s a human. A guy. And he’s a musician.

Never date a musician.

Oh, and I’m quite sure he’s dead. I read somewhere that he was dead.

The Monkey King had blue eyes. Everyone talked about his blue eyes. They startled a person and you had to avoid staring at him because the intensity of his pupils scared you. It was embarrassing to make eye contact. There was something deeply personal about the transaction. All the Balinese locals spoke about his eyes. They said “the Monkey King has blue eyes. Lovely blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. I wish I had blue eyes.” In fact, the vendors in the marketplace bought fake eye contacts as deep blue as fake plastic sapphire. To sell them, the vendors pitched them to potential buyers as “Monkey King eyes.”

“Ay you, want eyes like Monkey King?”

Nobody wanted eyes like the Monkey King, it turned out. Not for 70,000 Rupiah anyway. The eyes were too deep set, they made him seem crazy.

Chris Bitstrip

But it wasn’t his eyes that made him crazy. It was his actions.

Sure, in his blog he blamed the craziness on the monkeys, but we just obeyed his orders. He was insane.

And through his insanity, dis-contention began among the ranks.

-He’d play his trumpet in the early morning, waking us up at 5am to When the Saints Go Marching In.

– He burnt down Rafiki’s treehouse while we were having a onesie party. What an evil thing to do.

Having fun. Ha ha ha ha ha, see?

Having fun. Ha ha ha ha ha, see?

– He refused to marry and produce heirs. He broke the heart of our lovely Scar-face. Toyed with her emotions.

Scar-face-web-quality

-He endorsed slave labour.

– He kidnapped a drop bear from its native country, and released a white tiger, using them to spread fear among the monkeys (who are terrified by them). He’d say “if you don’t do what you’re told and work 15 hours a day for free, then the drop bear and white tiger will get you!”

-He made us watch Gossip Girl and Neighbours. It was never the good shows. I still haven’t caught up with Game of Thrones.

-And, I’m pretty sure he ate this monkey for breakfast last Sunday

Chelsea Suzanne Photography

Why would you eat such a cute little thing? What a monster!

– And so, you might be tempted to think of the Monkey King as a martyr, a kind man, a nobleman, a hero of sorts, especially when you learn what happened to him.

But actually, he was just a man. A monkey man. As cruel and as deceitful as the rest of us.

I continue soon.

Categories: Humor, literature | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Dung of Darkness – Redux

The journey to Bali in a stolen Indonesian ‘feral’ boat from Broome, Western Australia, took two days.  It was quickened toward the end of day one, when an Australian Navy ship under the guise of Operation Sovereign Borders towed me to the maritime border, unhooked my vessel and steamed back south.  Once the cries of “Tony Abbott says stay out!” subsided, I called back, from my slowly sinking boat: “Thank you!”  Little did they know I’d been tasked by their very own government, albeit confidentially through ASIO, to reach the tourist island off East Java and execute a mission which “had, did and would never exist”.  The mission was simple: an Australian national had set himself up in the Ubud Sacred Monkey Sanctuary as the leader, and in fact king, of a group of monkeys, one white tiger, a kidnapped drop bear and the attractive female host, known only as “Gina”, of failed reality TV show Big Monkey.  It was alleged by ASIO that the aforementioned were all serving as his bodyguards, while he set about recruiting as terrorist foot-soldiers Bali natives disenfranchised by drunken and drug-addled Australian tourists.  Well, I guess that part wasn’t simple.  But my mission was: to kill, with extreme prejudice, the Monkey King of Ubud – otherwise known as King Chewbacca.

20140124_133222

While the sun set over the South Kuta peninsula and my all-but-submerged boat disrupted angry surfers riding swell pounding the beach off Nusa Dua, I realised I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d do when confronted with the strange man who had put himself in such an unlikely position.  To be sure, I wasn’t sure what he’d do, either.  I’d been briefed in Broome that a group of Aussie surfers would be waiting the morning after my arrival outside a Nusa Dua hovel of a hotel.  All six of them, tired but wired from earlier salt-water endeavours, were preparing for a day trip of monkey-business in Ubud courtesy of a north-bound bus.  Five of them went along with my cover story of being a fellow wave-rider keen to innocently tag along to the island’s interior.  Their leader, paid both to ensure the others’ cooperation and ask no questions, did just that.  I asked them about a rumoured Balinese monkey king.  A couple spoke in sweaty whispers of surfing primates in the line-up, who would drop in on foreign surfers and scratch or chuck shit at any who dared challenge them.  The leader simply sat with me up the front of the bus, throwing knowing glances to the driver and me while silently sipping his Bintang beer.  “Someone needs to take care of that guy,” said another of their number, who had thus far remained silent.  And whose face was covered in still bleeding and yellowing scratches and smelled of monkey faeces.

Their leader upended the dregs from the can into his mouth just before the JI. Raya Tebongkang Ubud Road became the JI. Raya Kangetan, and we turned right.  Minutes later and in the mid-afternoon, we arrived at the sanctuary’s entrance.  The surfers were unnerved by the screaming monkeys and lone, occasional tiger’s roar audible from outside the forest.  So they left me alone at its gates.  Their leader threw me a Bintang, which I swilled greedily before walking calmly under the leafy, cool canopy.  Almost immediately I could hear unnaturally wind-like sounds then heavy impacts of something moving from tree-to-tree above me.  “But he’s a great man,” the trees muttered.  And I knew it was Garrett, the displaced drop bear.

“He stole you from your family, your home, your country, Garrett,” I whispered to the leaves.

Whoosh, thud.

“But he has good taste in music.”

“He caused you to miss Australia Day 2014, Garrett.”

Whoosh, thud.

“But there are so many Australians in Bali, not least himself.  So I need not leave.”

“He made a mockery of the drop bear myth.  Garrett.”

Whoosh, thud.  The snap of a branch.  I whipped the knife from my waist and lingered it in his furry neck just as he landed, fangs bared, on mine.

“Dare you mock this!?” he rasped, drooling on my shirt.  The smell of imported eucalyptus leaves and stale beer almost had me reeling.

“And you, this?” I calmly pressed the knife further into his coat, drawing both blood and a stifled wince.  “Help me, Garrett, and I will remove you from this equatorial nightmare and back to your sub-tropical home.”

The pacified koala muttered Midnight Oil, Cold Chisel and even a little Ball Park Music (Rich People Are Stupid), while the forest sucked us further toward its heart.  And my designated, mysterious foe.  I had to brandish the knife again when he began a Killing Heidi number.  Which silenced him.  He was less startled when intermittent growls and flashes of white started coming from and appearing around us.  “Calm,” he urged as we loped through the undergrowth.  I kept the knife handy.  It seemed Garrett was already midflight, fangs bared, not to mention screaming “Thunderstruck!” (an AC/DC number) when ferns to our left suddenly disgorged an enormous white tiger.  I was still running while the vision of a snarling gray ball of fur attached in combat to a growling white behemoth stuck stubbornly in my mind like a heavy footprint in mud.  Distant dog-like howls and pained roars shook the jungle to my rear.  Sensing my prey was near (a heinous smell was growing stronger), I pressed on.

A steaming pile of monkey shit landed beside me as I began my final approach to the promised royal tree house, adjacent the 14th century-built Holy Monkey Temples.  I glanced upward, only to see an angry cousin of my evolutionary family sitting in a tree, stroking a spear.  A baboon, which surely meant Rafiki the king’s head priest and part-time evil wizard.  Presently I saw the first of the surfers I’d accompanied on the journey from Nusa Dua, beside Rafiki.  Head removed from his body.  Attached to a spike.  Face contorted in a strange mixture of terror and humour.  Sploosh: more shit.  Another monkey: sitting spear stroking in a tree.  Mojo, the thief, royal footrest and, reportedly, dunce.  Horror: another head on a grisly spike.  Another three times this happened, much to my regret (as much due to the smell of the shit, as to the fear of the monkeys, as to the revulsion of the severed heads).  Jo-Jo, the King’s Paw; Timmy, the escaped mental patient; and Simeon, the stuffed monkey.  Until I came face-to face, albeit from ground to tree house-top, with the Monkey King – the severed head of the surfer group’s leader sitting prominently on a final bloody spike at his side.  “Word Journeyer,” he giggled, confident in his elevated position and surrounding of me by his minions.  “What took you so long?”  A rope ladder unfurled from above and landed at my feet.

The Monkey King lay sighing, much less commanding than at the moment I’d first sighted him, upon a hammock after I’d finally scaled the 50-foot ladder.  A woman, brunette, green-eyed and captivating, was sitting on a stool and stroking his head.  Meanwhile, a positively ugly monkey so disfigured by some kind of past attack that she had an extra nostril (whom I took to be Scar Face – the king’s obstinate suitor) jumped madly around the room while throwing her shit at Gina – who calmly ducked each acrimonious attack and maintained her attentions on the king’s throbbing forehead vein.  I was unprepared for such a scene.  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Oh, y’know, Word Journeyer,” he started.  “Too much power.  And too many crazy, beautiful, and crazy and not so beautiful, and completely insane and hideous women after me, as a result.”

Gina silently nodded, Scar Face threw another clumsily-aimed crap and I insincerely nodded empathetically.  It was then I noticed in a cobwebbed corner the computer he’d been using to organise his kingdom, recruit his anti-atavistic-Aussie-tourist terrorists, and blog about it.

IMG_0965

“You’re a lucky man, Monkey King,” I said, which he responded to by looking wistfully up at Gina, then glancing warily at Scar Face, but ignoring me as I inched toward his outdated Compaq laptop.

“Lucky?”

“Yeah,” I moved closer.  “People either fear you, or want to be you.”

He nodded.

“But they don’t want to smell like you, sorry.”  Within striking distance.

“Ah, that’s ok.  The plumbing in this tree house isn’t. . . .

I plunged the knife repeatedly, viciously into the laptop’s screen and keyboard.  Damaging it beyond repair.  Chewbacca screamed and struggled in vain out of the hammock, Gina silently held her right hand over her mouth; Scar Face threw what was surely her last shit for a while at me.  I ducked, grabbed a vine hooked inside the window, and swung out of it into a blood-red tropical sunset barely penetrating the sacred forest.

Categories: Australia, Bali, BIg Monkey, Humor, love, Relationships, Romance, television shows, travel advice | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Rabies from Scar-face

I’M SICK of being propositioned by suitors. In an effort to get me hitched, Jo-Jo (my Monkey’s Paw) has been encouraging  the many suitors to advance upon me. They would try to get to me at night if I hadn’t thought of fixing the walls and padlocking the doors of a local trader’s back shed in which I am currently residing in.

The most aggressive of them is a woman monkey I call “Scar-face”. She’s a bit suggestive.

"Hey beautiful"

“Hey beautiful”

I’m too scared to talk to her, and it’s not because I care what she thinks. Yesterday, Scar-face told me she had rabies, bit me on the neck, and offered out some sort of syringe which she said I needed to take as soon as possible if I didn’t want to die a most painful death.

“I’ll give it to you,” she tittered. “But you have to put a ring on it first.”

“I think we’re done here,” I said, climbing to the top of a tree and waiting for the first signs of madness. Or whatever symptoms humans get for rabies.

I’m not mad yet! And maybe I can fight the madness away by shrieking at the top of my lungs.

“Hey beautiful”
Categories: Animation, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tree Force

AFTER spending a few weeks with Dad and six monkeys in a fancy villa for Christmas holidays, I’m finally back in the monkey forest. Dad dropped us off at the forest gates this morning and threw each monkey out individually.

“You have all been horrible,” he said to us as he rubbed Mojo’s bite mark on his forearm. “Good riddance,” he said as he slammed the door. The car screeched away.

Rafiki started crying. This was surprising. He puts on such an arrogant persona, hates everyone, that I hadn’t noticed until then that he almost worshiped my dad. Later, I heard him mutter that my dad should be the king, not me.

I was relaxing in my favourite tree after ordering one of the monkeys to bring me an ice tea, when Gina climbed up the ladder. She didn’t look happy to be in the forest. But her boss had ordered her to come and tell me in person – because I smashed my phone after Gina and I used Bitstrip photos to argue – that the television executives were hoping to use the monkeys for another television show. A BETTER television show than the last one, which is a relief because Big Monkey was a terrible idea.

This show will be called Tree Force.

So right now the monkeys are being taught by professional renovators the basics how to build and renovate. The idea is that the monkeys will work together in pairs to build rooms around the tree while they bicker and squabble and use power tools to hurt each other (which apparently makes good TV).  Supposedly, in four weeks we’ll have a super tree house.

Maybe like this!

images.businessweek.com

images.businessweek.com

But I have my doubts.

Have the producers forgotten these are just damn monkeys? What madness is this? Monkeys can’t build tree houses. I wouldn’t even trust the monkeys with a hammer.

At the moment Mojo is at the foot of the tree, working on the front porch. I just hope he knows what he’s doing with that chainsaw.

Categories: Humor, television shows | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

What monkeys believe is the meaning of Christmas

WHILE Dad visits the fancy resort’s golf course, the monkeys I smuggled into the boot of our driver’s car chill out by the pool with me. We have interesting conversations over Bintang, like about Nelson Mandela, and what Christmas is about.

Since the monkeys have not celebrated Christmas before, and considering they live on an island of Hindus, their perspectives are interesting…and laughable. It’s like asking children where they think babies come from.

Here are six views about what Christmas is about. They cover religion, materialism, music, and family:

MOJO:Everyone knows that Christmas is a religious ceremony. Shrines dedicated to Santa are installed in the shopping temples. Ceremonies involve proud parents bringing their children to Santa’s altar, where he then judges to see if they have been naughty and nice.  He determines this by testing the children with this question; “and what would you like for Christmas?”

It is usually customary for Santa to return the children. Though I believe there have been cases where some children who ask for nuclear weapons or roofies are smuggled into a sack where they are never seen again.

rocket launcher kid

RAFIKI: Christmas is celebrated by Christians. They received gifts like tan lotion and bikinis and strut on beaches in the near nude and practice their infidelity.

(he didn’t exactly say it like that, but I hate Rafiki, and I want everybody else to hate him too)

cover-universe.com

cover-universe.com

ABU: Christmas is about presents!

The idea is based off an ancient teaching that it is better to give than it is to receive.

But I don’t think people are practicing to receive well enough. I’ve observed many receipients who get an unexpected present and say “you shouldn’t have!” like the person who gave it to them was improper to think of them. Others groan and look unhappy and say “This DVD has the wrong region code. It’s useless!”

Smile! Cause people love you so much that they feel obliged to give you stuff.

From craftinsurance.com

From craftinsurance.com

Simeon: Let’s break it down. What’s Christmas about? Um…Jesus?

What’s Jesus about? Um…love?

So that means Christmas is about love, right.

But where is the love? I don’t see it. Cause people are living like they ain’t got no mommas. Only attracted to things that bring the drama.

In conclusion, Christmas is about living through the teachings of the Black Eyed Peas.

From hpmusic.net

From hpmusic.net

JO-JO: Christmas is about having fun with the family.

Get them drunk. Stay back and enjoy the chaos. It’s magical.

From refinery29.com

From refinery29.com

CAZZA: Christmas is about…um…singing Christmas carols? My favourite is little drummer boy. Come they told me, rum pum pum, pum.

I like that song because the drummer boy is broke and destitute, and I’m pretty sure he’s a meth addict (read between the lines). And he doesn’t have anything to give baby king Wenceslas, who is prophesised to be the greatest king in history.

But the drummer boy realises that he can worship to his king through his ability to drum to Megadeth. In fact, I believe drummer boy’s real name is Joey Kramer, who played for Aerosmith.

From drummerworld.com

From drummerworld.com

Categories: Christmas, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

The Monkey King’s daddy issues

SURE, you would think my parents could just be proud of me being a Monkey King. But they aren’t.

Dad warned me he was coming to visit me in Bali for Christmas. He was going to stay at some five star resort almost an hour out of Ubud and I wasn’t expecting to see him until tomorrow.

Except he walked into the forest. I saw him coming into the forest with a bewildered expression. I screamed “Nooo!” when I saw Mojo offer him candy (Dad didn’t want that candy, believe me).

Dad watched me disgustedly as I climbed down the tree. Examined my long hair and split ends. “Get a shirt on!” he said, wrinkling his nose. It is the first thing he has said to me in two years. He has never forgiven me for failing my Bachelor of Law. (read more about dad here). I remembered then I hadn’t had a shower since the day before yesterday. The humidity really does get to you as  well. I felt sticky and exhausted.

Davie-sketch-web-quality

He said he wasn’t going to take me to stay at a fancy resort looking how I was.

“Good, I’m staying here with my monkeys,” I said, and then he grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the forest. The monkeys howled and chased us and before you know it they had grabbed my dad and were tugging him in eight or nine different directions.

“Stop!” I said as dad screamed “my arms! My arms!”

“Let’s go away and have some family time without the monkeys,” dad said, and got up, dusting himself. He yelled angrily as he popped his arm socked back in. “I just haven’t got anyone to spend Christmas with, except you.” He looked so desperate and made me feel so guilty.

“Alright, I’ll go with you,” I said. “Let me get some gear together.”

Dad walked to the car he hired and slid into the back seat. I told the monkeys they had to stay as I dragged a satchel of possessions into the boot. The driver got out of his seat to help me. I gave him money and he grinned and winked when six of the monkeys smuggled themselves in with the bag.

We shut the door and drove away. Dad didn’t even look at me when we were in the car. He was on his mobile phone. When I heard the monkeys make noises in the boot, screaming at each other that they were cheating at the monopoly game they were playing, I would clap or kick at the floor or fake cough. Dad would yell louder into the phone every time I would make these sounds.

Yeah, happy Christmas! I just wanted to be with the monkeys for Christmas and to teach them about this holiday.

Categories: Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Bitstrip War’s final battle: Even Monkey Kings can be losers

THERE’S this girl called Gina. She’s a TV presenter. She’s hot. I don’t think I’ve mentioned her before.

Regular viewers of my blog might be rolling their eyes right now saying “dude!”

Anyway, for a while she was disinterested and tried to ignore me as much as possible. And then we became…well…frenemies by insulting each other through Bitstrip photos. I liked to call the battles The Bitstrip Wars.

I was the happiest I had ever been in my life. Surrounded by the monkeys I cared for in the heart of Bali, and insulting the girl I had the hots for.

But then I got into huge trouble when I sent this photo:

BitstripwithGina7

After a few days of silence – making me sweat my body weight mind you – she sent through a Facebook message.

GINA: You’re right, that is horribly inappropriate! Are you crazy? My fiance checks my Facebook page. He doesn’t want us to be friends anymore. He thinks you like me.

MONKEY KING: Oh Boo hoo! That’s nothing if you snapchatted with me.

GINA: I don’t think I ever want to.

MONKEY KING: You’re a strong, fierce, independent woman. Be friends with whoever you want to be friends with.

GINA: Stop being a patronising jerk. And no more naked photos! Or that’s it.

MONKEY KING: Only if YOU stop sending me naked photos. Chompy finds them a little arousing.

So then she sent me another Bitstrip photo. Except this photo was different. Before, it was harmless sexual innuendo, pen dropping and teasing.

Bitstrip with Gina9

MONKEY KING: Wow, just a little hurtful, Gina.

GINA: What? That’s hurtful?

MONKEY KING: Yes, I’m…hurt…Gina. I thought we had something going.

GINA: Oh shut up.

MONKEY KING: Ooh, getting angry, are you Gina?

GINA: You really piss me off. Die, you creepy jungle sleaze!

So…ignoring the danger signs that suggested the subtle danger signs had gone from “Irritated” to “Anger” to “Hate”, I posted another Bitstrip to ease the tension.

As you do.

Bitstrip with Gina10

GINA: Ha ha ha. Comparing me to Jack Nicholson? Oh honey. Is that the best you’ve got?

Bitstrip with Gina11

You would be surprised how many people have called me “crazy” or a stoner  or “heavily medicated” or like Brad Pitt’s character in 12 Monkeys (love that movie!!!).

After a while you get weary of the judgement. I know I was being a bit sensitive, and was letting Gina wind me up too easily.

So I got a bit carried away, trying to make a joke.

It’s a defence mechanism.

Bitstrip with Gina12.2

And it’s been half a week, and there was no sign of what she thought of my “proposal” until this morning, when I noticed she unfriended me on Facebook.

The Bitstrip Wars were over. And I was left with a sour taste and a broken phone (because I threw it at the ground), realising an important lesson: that maybe in war, there are no winners.

Even Monkey Kings can be losers.

Categories: Humor, Romance | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Silly little dreamer’s birthday

My birthday in tropical paradise! I rise from my throne with a yawn and a wookie growl. It’s hard to tell whether it is the burn of the sun, or an orchestra of monkeys (and a drop bear) that wakes me from my slumber.

I leave the tree by sliding down the newly constructed flying-fox, which finishes halfway along Monkey Forest Road. It’s the best way to escape the forest without being chased by a white tiger (you sneak back in by hiding behind a tourist). Some of the monkeys follow but I kindly tell them to leave me alone for a little while. Cause I need ME time.

Bitstrip rainbows

I sit down for a refreshing ginger and apple juice at the Three Monkeys Bar. Get a massage. Ride my moped without a helmet on, dammit. Have a copper pull me up, and he recognises me and smiles and sings “Happy Birthday Mr Monkey King” in broken English, then asks for money.

I play soccer with a group of local kids in a nearby village, have Mi goreng for lunch, and get a tattoo of a machine-gun wielding monkey on my back.

I believe a birthday should be a celebration of life. Nothing planned. Nothing set. No sit down roast dinners. I think it should be doing everything on the spot. Laughing when you’re 80 and saying “See this shriveled tattoo of a monkey gunning down Nazis? My 24th! I know!” Waking up and running out of your home and facing the world and saying “I always wanted to do this, so dammit! This is my time!”

But I realised that I just wanted to be with my monkeys. I could imagine that they were sad and lonely, wondering why they couldn’t celebrate my birthday with me.

SONY DSC

Photograph by Carol Boaden

But no, when I got back I found the selfish bastards my friends drunk. It was too hot to dance. Most of them were just chilling on Bali lounges with tequilas and chatting up hot Swedish tourists. Moby was playing so loud on our collection of stereos that I could hear him from the other end of Monkey Forest Road. The traffic was hell, with most of the locals swarming closer, refusing to miss another monkey party. A bouncer (what the? Who hired him?) was blockading the gate, only letting in the chicks.

“You can’t come in!” the bouncer said. “I’ve been warned about you.” Then he chuckled and slapped me on the back and said “had you going.”

I entered, surveying the madness. I stepped over what I first thought was a mutated hedgehog (nothing like Sonic though) but was actually a stoned white tiger with an insane amount of tranquilisers pinned into the fur.

I grabbed a “cold one” from an esky and that’s when all the monkeys jumped up and ambushed me and lifted me. I crowd surfed all the way through the forest and was at last put down onto my throne. The monkeys handed  me presents and cards, blabbering I had to open theirs first.

Well, I couldn’t open everybody’s first, so they helped me do it. Mojo opened Timmy’s present, a Kris (Indonesian sword). “Oh boy!” Just what I wanted!” Mojo shrieked, and ran down the tree with it to show his friends.

Garrett the drop-bear gave me a collection of The Doors albums, Jo-Jo gave me a golden engraved staff and some socks, and Lucy returned my Gossip Girl DVDs.

I opened the cards last. That’s how I do things.

This was my favourite cover:

monkey king card

But wait! There’s more!

Monkey king card 2

 I couldn’t have had a better year, so thank you all for putting up with my eccentricities and crazy dreams. I love you all.

Categories: Humor, Party | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Bitstrip war with my crush (round 2)

I HAVE fought so much temptation since I found my smart phone near the creek. I have not posted stupid Bitstrip photos to Gina, the girl I have a crush on. It’s stupid and immature. I know that now.

Last week we flirted a little using Bitstrip. Though she might say otherwise. She sent the last Bitstrip photo and I meant to send another one, but Jo-Jo threw the phone away so I wouldn’t retaliate.

Anyway, she sent me another Bitstrip photo this morning!

BitstripwithGina5

Okay, so maybe it is true. Maybe I have visited her office a lot lately with a retinue of monkey bodyguards (with the excuse that I have a few hot scoops for her). And sure, maybe there might have been a few pens that were dropped. And sure, maybe she might have seen my arse the seven or eight times I bent down in my skinny black jeans.

But she has just brought on ROUND TWO!

So I sent her a nice photo.

BitstripwithGina8

To which she replied:

Gina: Ha Ha Ha. You have made a powerful enemy, my friend.

Monkey King: Ooh, who?

Gina: Didn’t anybody tell you not to annoy a TV presenter?

BitstripwithGina6

That’s when I probably took it way too far. She never replied to my next one.

BitstripwithGina7

Categories: Animation, Humor, Romance | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

A message from the king: birthday

ANNOUNCEMENT to all monkey citizens:

It is my 24th birthday next week! Which means it will be a public holiday for all of you. Unfortunately, none of you actually work. You’re unemployed or have stupid job titles like “thief” or “the Monkey King’s paw” or  “death racer” or “arsonist” or “wrestler”, and so on and so forth.

Monkey King currency I wish to give you all a present, as a thank you for being such lazy bludgers lovely monkeys. 100 Monkey Forest dollars. Hopefully it should be enough to buy me a present. This currency is now legal tender in the forest, several of the cafes, and all Ubud market stalls (warning: the monkey forest doesn’t have a strong currency).

Now, I don’t want a large party like at my coronation! We’re still recovering from that. I mean it, no surprises. No surprises mean no more stealing white tigers from famous celebrities (most of us still can’t leave the trees in fear Bitey will maul us), spiking the drinks, giving the local birds meth (whether it is white, blue, or any other random colour. This means you, Heisenberg!),  parties without my knowledge until the last second, hiring hookers (male or female or looks-female-but-turns-out-to-be-a-dude).

No surprises!

Now, Chompy has reminded me that I promised you all a street party for my birthday and that the Bundy Bear would attend. Oh, Chompy, by now you should learn I make a lot of crazy promises. Crazy promises that I believe when I make them.

But sometimes, reality brings us back to earth. We fall out the tree we’re climbing so that a ferocious white tiger can gnaw at our dreams and intentions.

Stupid tiger.

stupid tiger

Besides, the Bundy Bear has not replied to any of my letters I have sent him. He shall henceforth be named enemy of the kingdom and will only be forgiven if he brings some of that delicious rum with him.

Oh, also, a heads-up. My dad is coming from Australia to visit soon. He wants to see me. I warn you, he’s uptight and he will be doing whatever he can to drag me back home. Please don’t attack him. I’m looking at you Timmy. Bitey. Abu. Chompy. Mojo. Rafiki. What the hell. All the rest of you savages.

I wish you all a wonderful king’s birthday.

With love and respect to all my delightful citizens,

The Monkey King of Ubud

Categories: Humor, letter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

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