I know (because you told me) that many of you have been wondering why I haven't been blogging lately, and I'm also sure that all of you have pretty much given up on the idea that I would ever update it after checking-in day after day to find that yet again all that was to be had was last Christmas' 'Jesus-is-your-buddy' philosophy and jokes from christmas crackers.
Well here it comes folks: the excuse and the new blog rolled into one. The reason I haven't been blogging is that Quasi-mojo was afflicted with a rather nutty and inconvenient illness. The leading theory is that the whole messy business was probably set off by a latent allergy to Russel Sprouts, who is our neighbour who makes a living harvesting brussel sprouts and who presumably handled the sprouts that quasi-mojo ate at christmas, causing this unfortunate reaction. This theory is not based on medical information but on Quasi-Mojo's paranoia that was enduced (ok I'll be honest - supplemented) by his unfortunate illness. In the abscence of alternate theories (barring the 'medical' one - phhh!) however, we are going to run with it - despite the fact, might i add that we have received plenary summonses regarding this matter on a civil charge of defamation. I am confident however that Sprouts will be laughed out of court as (though his claim is legitimate) he has a ridiculous name that bears a striking likeness to the vegetables he harvests, and he lives in the belly of a wooden horse which he claims is not a premises because it is a gift to the Trojans in honour of Zeus that they just haven't picked up yet, and further that the only premises on the land (as far as the the Occupiers' Liability Act 1995 is concerned) is his horse, 'Bellerophon'.
He'll also most likely wear flip-flops to court and swear to the judge that they're 'thongs'... but I digress...
Quasi-Mojo apparently woke up on New Year's Eve (so the story goes - I've never actually seen him sleep) with a peculiar condition which is one or other of 'Acatalepsy' or 'Scatalepsy' (neither of which should be mixed up with 'Catalepsy' which is adifferent thing altogether), and is most likely both. He says it felt like being extraordinarily hungry, like being at the height of sexual excitement and like feeling a real urgent need to spend a penny/to go potty/to take a leak/to dump a load/to show the turtle's head/to clear the pipes... [I interjected at this point to indicate that I had indeed got the message].
Now you might think that the above hunry/randy/poopy description is some kind of metaphor for a feeling he had which was primarily 'psychiatric' in the medical understanding of the word, but in fact, it was a pretty literal description. My understanding (from empirical epistemology) is that the condition made him obsessively want to 'go' all the time and that this created some addictive either narcotic-style or sexual euphoric/orgasmic sensation. Now I can't answer the 'chicken' or 'egg' question regarding this desire to soil and the pleasure it illicited, and largely this is because quasi-mojo ate the chicken, the egg, their relationship, and the whole question as to its relevance. In fact he ate pretty much everything except the corporeal products of his 'condition.'
Folks, he was a duracell bunny of eating, pooping and writhing in pleasure. Everywhere from one point on everything within a radius of there and anywhere on the outer fringes of everything, got some description of love-poo splattering. It was a very greeny type of substance, smooth to the touch initially, hardening over a few hours into the consistency of soda bread and thankfully odourless as is in the nature of all things Q-M. At first he avoided any and all (if there's a difference) attempts at intervention because he was so rapt by sensations of pleasure and paranoia, but finally it became apparent that (as jesus once said - or such is my belief) that it is possible to have too much of a good thing.
On the issue of treating the condition, though its origins were unkown, it turned out there was a cure that had been stumbled across by accident in 1542. I was initially dubious about it because it required so much hands-on activity by me, but well being the good mate I am (and seeing how I wasn't all that willing to live perpetually in a world where what possessions I had, had one of too fates: to be eaten or soiled by a sick monkey) I rolled up my sleeves and did what i had to do to make him better. It wasn't esay and he didn't always thank me for it but he was a good monkey (mostly) and accepted that it was all for his own good.
Apricot yogurt and vaseline had to be administered at regular intervals to his out-hole and in-hole respectively. No that is not a typo. He had to eat vaseline (as the quack said) to calm and moisten the humours that have become inflamed and to make microscopic belly gremlins become dislodged from his intenstine wall. And the yogurt was 'applied' to make defacation less arousing. I was less strict with this latter imperitive for both our sakes. On a two-hourly basis I also had to engage the monkey in sufficient physical exertion to make him sweat, then sponge him down, then expose him to a current of cold air. Initially I was trying to just blow on him and for the twin reasons of his finding my 'blowing-face' too hilarious and that the act itself was pretty tiring and made me feel a bit dizzy, I invested in an electric fan. After we experimented for quite a while as to what form of sweat-enducement would be most fun, we settled eventually on trampoline-wrestling but this had the slimy (but not always or necessarily unpleasant) aspect of the vicissitudes of increasingly vaseliny-and-yogurty poo continuing to emerge (bear in mind it neither smells or has any chemical affect on humans so it's not much grosser than say,
coleslaw or mud wrestling). In the early evening then I had to give him a tranquiliser shot which I liked to do with a blow-pipe and a dart as it made things a bit more interesting. Sometimes he'd pretend to be King-Kong when I was doing this and his impersonation is about as good as you would expect (bit 'fish in a barrel' really for a monkey) but it was still kinda funny.
He wasn't really right again until up to a few days ago, and all in the whole affair was pretty traumatic for all concerned. I was grateful that he was good enough to help clear up the mess but i think he just enjoyed using the sand-blaster and wasn't really helping for helping's sake. Somehow in the interim I managed to get two law essays done which was good, and was also able to party a little bit because he generally slept from early evening.
Putting the unfortunateness of whole medical emergency aside, it really was a good month for bonding and I really think I learned a lot about myself and the kind of guy I am or can be. Yes, in an unexpected way I'm quite grateful for the moments of trauma that came out of the whole affair as i think i derived some good insight about myself and about Quasi-Mojo - but I won't harp on the moral of the story thing too much or even make it too eloquent because at the end of the day I am not, nor will I ever be (to the best of my knowledge), Gerry Springer.
Quasi-Mojo would like me to thank those of you who sent cards and flowers both of which he gratefully ate and he would also like to apologise to those of you who lost items of sentimental and monetary value to his compulsive appetite during his sickness. To those of you who were upset or offended by the poo, he suggests that it's only a bit of crap, we all do it, and you should get over yourselves.
