A British woman with a lifelong gripping fear of monkeys decides to travel to a Thailand island inhabited by macaque monkeys to face her fear after being encouraged by a friend to confront her phobia. The woman gives in, goes to Thailand, and gets attacked by a group of monkeys almost immediately upon arrival.
What kind of bad karma do you have to pollute into the universe to get this sort of ironic bad luck? Someone bigger than you and I has something out for this woman. That’s bad luck. That’s real bad luck. I like that the woman’s friend is partially responsible for this situation. I can see it now.
“Come on. Your fear is completely irrational and ridiculous. You have to get over this. Monkeys are cute. They hang from trees and eat bananas. Bananas are delicious. Think of Curious George and Dunstin Checks In. Let’s go to Thailand and get you over your phobia. It’s time to grow up.”
Ape-attacks. Those are probably the worst kind. Monkeys have those opposable thumbs, they can get a really good grip. Especially with their mouths, which have nothing to do with their thumbs. Anyway.
According to digitaljournal.com, apparently the woman went under a large rock to find some shade for a moment, and a monkey appeared. “The monkey took my wrist and pounced on my right arm, sinking his teeth in and hung off of it.” More macaques joined in the attack, surrounding her and biting her arms and body. After she lost consciousness, she still had many of the monkeys hanging from her limbs while she lay collapsed and bleeding profusely from a “deep, deep hole” in her arm. Some Thai fishermen found her and pried the monkeys off of her, and took her to the hospital.
The tour guide was quoted stating that, “We can’t control the monkeys if they decide to bite someone.” He then said that, “That day, some people were teasing the monkeys. They don’t always attack the specific person that was teasing them.”
Nature. Unpredictable, and so rich with irony.
Trent and I just filled up at a BP gas station (relax folks, we actually had to. We were in the middle of bumblefudge Iowa and literally running bone dry out of gas. Our truck was shuddering like a competitor on Fear Factor watching their teammate chow down on cow balls). Anyway, so there we are alongside our gas pump, and directly in front of us is a 58 year old man filling up his truck, standing loud and proud with his head up, chest out, and one leg up on the bumper of his car like Captain Morgan as he held the gas nozzle triumphantly and filled his tank, wearing a black baseball cap with “BP Gasoline” written across the front, and a giant American flag as the bill.
Might as well wear a blinking t-shirt that says “I HATE THE OCEAN,” Tex. Why don’t you just drive down to Louisiana and shoot a pelican? Order turtle soup next time you go out to eat. Go take a shit in the Gulf of Mexico. Don’t hold back.
Time to go.
“There is a gold painted, fake pair of legs leaned up against a light pole outside my window. Nobody has even looked at them. I don’t think I am imagining.”