The Woeful Passing of Rasputin the Monkey (historical record)

Rasputin was one adorable little monkey but we don't think we have ever seen a monkey which was not adorable.

(Ed:  sure, right up until the gorilla tears your face off!)

Take it easy, Doctor Leakey, a gorilla is not a monkey and is also not aggressive.  If one is tearing off your face, you probably provoked it and you deserve it.  Ha!

NOTE:  we are not for one millisecond advocating the importation of wild animals.

Rasputin was part of the family long before there was awareness of the hideous methods of transporting animals used by animal traffickers.  Unless an animal was bred within whichever country in which you live, don't buy it.  Better yet, just don't buy it.  These types of animals are exotic and require more care than the vast majority of people can provide.  Poor care won't kill a dog but other animals are much more vulnerable.  (Poor care will instead create a life of misery for the dog.  You tell me which is worse.)


On with the story...

Rasputin was an adorable li'l monkey and he is the one I saw when I came home from the Army and walked past a neighborhood girl because I thought the monkey was more interesting and thus ensured there would never be any possibility of a love connection with the girl.

But he was an adorable monkey and he loved meal worms.  Watching Rasputin eat meal worms was as cute as watching a kid eat ice cream and the styles aren't all that different.


Admittedly, their manners are not exactly the ones you may expect from Heloise and her Tiny Book on Etiquette.

While his manners wouldn't get him admitted to the inner circle, who really wants to be in it anyway. And take a look at his hand.  Adorable ... I'm tellin' you.

Here's the adorability kill shot:

Oh, do beware of that cute little mouth, honey chile ... it bites.  They're adorable but they're not adorable like in a Walt Disney movie.

They are also gangsters as your food was not safe.

With six kids in the family, even in times when large families were more common, finding a dining table which would accommodate the whole mob at one time was difficult.  The way this was finally solved was when the kids finally managed to destroy a pool table my ol' Dad had bought.  The natural evolution is to turn old pool tables into dining tables and so it went.

The table was not complete until it was painted ... with a layer of gloss red enamel house paint.  It was glorious and so hideous it was offense against every future IKEA and their uncomfortable as fuck furniture.

(Ed:  'uncomfortable as fuck??')

Heard that one the other day.  We're mystified by it too.

(Ed:  is it that uncomfortable??)

No idea.  Never been inside an IKEA but we know Swedish designers consider style more important than comfort but typically most backs and buttocks do not agree with them.  Therein you see the Silas Theory of Furniture Design.  If my backside ain't enjoyin' the experience, then that is worthless furniture.

(Ed:  uncomfortable as fuck?)

Maybe so, maybe so.

Note:  the real triumph of modern design is in chrome and glass as we really love the warmth of it.  We can't imagine a colonoscopy in any other environment.

(Ed:  isn't the colonoscopy the one where they take that big machine and stick it  ...)

That's the one, matey.  By the way, meet Inge.  She's from Sweden.  Don't ask what she is carrying in the bag.


That big red dining table was host to six kids arrayed in some twisted order which probably made no sense except it resulted in the least fighting.  My ol' Dad sat to my right at the head of the table and my ol' Mother would have sat at the other end if there were any faintest chance a mother of six kids would get a moment to sit down at dinner time.  She was no obedient servant and you have seen that in other historical records so you know she had to be tough to do this.  She even sang sometimes.

There was a bit of a tactical error in the location of the cage for Rasputin the Monkey since its proximity to the dining table presented an inevitable temptation.  In combination with his ability to pick the latch on the cage door to open it, there presented an inevitable disaster.


Peas were part of the menu on this evening and that was good because Rasputin liked them.  It should not have been a surprise when I saw him materialize in front of my plate and saw him standing there regarding its contents.  He had no particular interest in me but my plate was a fascination.

In an instantaneous furry flash, his hand shot out and grabbed one of the peas on my plate.  He brought that up to his face and held it in both hands so he could turn it around to examine all aspects of it.  After he was satisfied the pea was of acceptable quality, he would nibble it, just as if he were eating a mealworm ... or an ice cream cone.

Even after the Army, I was too finicky for it and Rasputin owned the plate on the You Touched It, You Bought It principle.  That really was too finicky as he was precise in his moves.  He did not fiddle around with the plate but rather he studied it to decide that which he might like and then there was the instantaneous furry flash ... poof ... it's gone.


But soon were many of the people at the table were gone.  There was the IKF National which was the race event to determine the national champions.  This was the Big League in go-karting and the racing members of the family had started pursuing this while I was in the Army.  I never made it to one but there is no doubt in my mind there are great historical records in those trips to the Nationals.  We really don't know for sure what outrages were committed on these trips but we know this much:  there had to be some.

So the only ones remaining in this huge house were Tinkerbell, Lotho, and I.  We were the ones, the co-conspirators, the Legion of Monkey Death.  For we stood accused after the untimely dispatch of this adorable li'l squirrel monkey.  We were guilty of monkey death, ape-icide if you wish.

(Ed:  monkeys are not apes)

Um, yes.  Right, right.

And so we're advised by the counsel for the defense of these human reptiles, these creatures of even less worth than the bottom of a monkey's cage, these infernal, insidious monkey killers ... we are advised this monkey was not an ape.  We submit these wretched excuses for humanity would have killed it anyway.

(Defense for Lotho:  our esteemed and noble client was not even there and we demand a refutation of anything which may besmirch has character)

Fair enough.  Even for our Inquisition, some excuses are acceptable.  Guards, don't burn that one.


You see, we rose one morning, in our sadistic, life-hating ways and discovered a previously vertical monkey had overnight become a horizontal monkey.  We were not well-versed in monkey recovery procedures and did finally conclude, even stoned as we were, this is one dead ass monkey.

Naturally, we followed all the rituals for the faithful dispatch of his monkey soul to the monkey hereafter but this was not sufficient for the trial after the return of the travelers, it was not enough for the Inquisition of the Monkey Killers.  We must burn and thus atone for the untimely passing of this adorable li'l monkey.


Even though many years have passed, we know somewhere Inquisitors are chanting

Death to the Monkey Killers.  Death to the Monkey Killers.

And to this day none of us have any idea what happened.  One evening it's a cheerful, mealworm-eatin' li'l monkey.  The next morning, it is a deceased monkey, an expired product, if you will.  We have no idea what happened.

(Inquisitor:  you leave out the time difference between that evening and the morning was four days and he fookin' starved to death!!  Death to the Monkey Killers!!!)

Now that's bullshit.  Stoners love to give mealworms to monkeys because it's so funny to watch.  We really have no idea what happened.


Death to the Monkey Killers!!!

Death to the Monkey Killers!!!

AAaaaaaiiiiiyyyeeeeee!!!