A couple of years ago, I was maybe going to write a play about a woman who gave birth to a monkey. I referred to this work-in-progress (which existed only in my brain and not on paper) as the “monkey baby play.” So when James saw a listing for a TV show a couple of years ago called My Monkey Baby, he recorded it for me. For research purposes.
The monkey baby play turned into something else entirely, and we never got around to watching My Monkey Baby the TV show, which was resting in a dusty corner of our DVR. Until Saturday night, post wine and dinner. And wine.
Ye gads. See, the Baby part of the title was an important clue that this wasn’t going to be an Every Which Way But Loose sort of journey. If it were, it probably would have been called My Monkey Buddy.
Instead of showcasing the fun of having a monkey as a pet (the ante firmly being upped in the household pet category because of the addition of an animal with opposable thumbs), it was a show about sad/lonely people who desperately wanted to have a baby but couldn’t, due to being physically unable or because they were estranged from their human babies who grew up into adults and quit wearing diapers and little dresses.
I was hoping for an eccentric old man in a velvet suit who’d taught his monkey how to do simple math and play go fish. Maybe a granola couple living off the grid with their armpit hair and their monkey baby chilling in the xeriscaped yard. Perhaps a nerdy chick who rides a tandem bike to her job at the library with her monkey pedaling in back (and wearing a little backpack).
The up shot of this is I have now crossed “have a pet monkey” off my list of possible shit to do.