You may or may not be aware that my day started something like this:
This is me waiting not-so-patiently for my ADD mother so I could accompany her to the dentist. I already wrote about that, though, and in case you’re wondering why a 32 year old woman (me) would need to go to the dentist with her *mumblemumble* year old mom (my mom), well the short answer is if she’s drugged, she’s gonna need a designated driver. And since I’ve never been drunk, I figure I can put this in my pocket as a “get out of drunk free” card to call her at an ungodly hour for chauffeur services. That’s how this works, right?
Well, waiting is always better when you’re taking stupid pictures and posting them online, so I did that for a while. Then I got REALLY bored. I’ll spare you the details because it involved talking to the dog and that’s kind of pathetic. So maybe I’ll spare me the details. Either way, there are no details to be had. Shut up about the details. (Note: the dog is not a sparkling conversationalist. She stared at me like she cared, though, so I know she’s with me.)
After all of that, we left for the dentist at the “holy crap, why am I awake” hour of 8:40 a.m. I am not a morning person. I can do it when I have to, like being mom’s DD, but I don’t like it. I worked nightshift before I became an unemployed loser. I’m a wombat — or something. Are wombats nocturnal? They should be, if they aren’t. I mean, “bat” is right there in the name. So if wombats aren’t nocturnal, we’ll say that’s nature’s screw up, not mine.
And apparently Mother Nature is a real jerk because this is a wombat:
As you can see, it’s being deliberately — what’s the opposite of nocturnal? Diurnal? I’m going to go look. Be right back.
Okay, Apple’s built-in dictionary sucks. Didn’t even list synonyms. Cheap-ass dictionary. Anyway, we’ll say it’s diurnal, but take that on your own risk because evidently, wombats aren’t nocturnal. Where was I? Oh. It looks kind of like a fuzzy pig. But aside from that and any lack of any bat-like features, I’d totally be a nocturnal wombat.
Anyway, that’s how my day started — not as a wombat. I could never get my hair to stand up like that. It started with waiting. And then at the dentist’s office, there was more waiting because it turns out if you’re not the patient, the dentist feels no obligation whatsoever to entertain you and neither do his or her staff. Jerks. They went on working and I was left to my own devices, specifically to my iPhone device. So there may have been stupid tweets and G+ posts beyond the legal limit. This is totally not my fault. I mean, the TV was even on the weather channel. What am I supposed to do with that? Even my psychiatrist puts a Disney movie on now and again.
But we finished at the dentist and I thought we’d grab lunch and head home because, hey, just because she’s been prodded and poked and possibly numbed doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate the value of some good curly fries, does it? Well, yeah, it does, but that’s not what this is about. I’ll air my curly fries sadness later. This is about the Monkey Market.
See, I live in Northeast Arkansas. There’s nothing north of Jonesboro, but that’s where mom’s dentist is. You have to go through Brookland, Farville and Goobertown before you get there. Okay, so that’s like, what, 3 miles? Point is, it’s in the middle of nowhere. I’d show you a scenery pic, but honestly it’s mostly cows and hay out there. So you just expect to drive through it, right?
No. Because if you go to Farville, you will see a sign that blatantly advertises a Monkey Market.
So as you can see, it clearly says “Monkey Market” and, just in case there’s any confusion, it even has a picture of a monkey.
But then there’s the crap about t-shirt printing and flea market, yadda yadda. I just assumed they had excess fleas because what with the economy and all, they’re probably having trouble moving the surplus monkeys. I try not to think about these things too hard.
Interestingly, it’s right next to Darwin’s auto sales. In Arkansas, no less. Darwin and monkeys are neighbours. I honestly thought we had a rule about that or something.
I’d show you a picture of Darwin’s but I’m having trouble thinking of brilliant things to say to fill the space beside these photos I already have and I already talked about Darwin’s here and it’s really just a boring sign. No bearded guys or anything. Sorry.
Anyway, I had my iPhone ready because, who knows, I might have trouble deciding which monkey and I might need the internet to help me. But imagine my sadness when I walked in and found a normal, boring flea market with not even a stuffed monkey to be had. NO MONKEYS IN THE MONKEY MARKET. This has to be false advertising. I mean, there’s even a monkey on the sign, people. I don’t know what it says about us that we can’t even be honest and offer real monkeys in a monkey market.
But while I didn’t find any monkeys, I did find a rainbow of prom.
You can’t really tell there, but there’s a dress from every shade in the spectrum, so if you need a deal for opening a drag show or maybe want to take your friends to Vegas and marry a cowboy 0r — well, anything, really; I’m not going to come up with all the ideas for you. You have to help here. Anyway, they’re at the Monkey Market in Farville, AR. Don’t tell them I sent you. I think I might have scared people.
So there failed to be monkeys anywhere in there and I really wanted to ask someone about it but my mother kept threatening to disown me or to find my real mother (ha, ha! Right? Mom?) so I figured this time I’d leave it for later, but I have pictures. They owe me monkeys.
I did find something that I’m pretty sure I could hurt myself on. It’s some kind of exercise thingy and while my mother insists you’re meant to do sort of pushups while peddling it, I maintain that it’s a balance builder and you have to stand upright. If this were the Olympics, my idea would win. Anybody can lie down to do something. I can’t help it; I just have higher standards. Anyway, maybe it’s for bicycle fetishists. I really have no idea. I just knew that $5 was a low price, so it was obviously a booby trap laid for less savvy shoppers than myself.
As you can see, no matter how you look at it, that thing is a bad idea. I mean, maybe if I sat in a chair while I used it, I could refrain from absolutely killing myself, but otherwise, it’s like a $5 suicide machine. And I know that’s a bad idea because I got turned down for the patent on one. (Note: feel free to write me for details if you’re interested in marketing a $5 suicide machine.)
It looks all innocent, but it’s really, really devious.
That picture is way too tall for the amount of content I have about it.
WordPress is making me fill this space.
There’s like another whole inch to go.
Carpal tunnel, that’s all I’m saying. Repetitive strain from typing about too tall pictures.
I HAD OTHER THINGS HERE AND THEN MY COMPUTER WENT INSANE. Damn. Well, I’ll leave you with the most disturbing bathroom door I’ve ever seen. I told mom I heard banjos and she said I was being stupid.
So that’s your afternoon “WTF” from Farville, AR.
I think next time I’ll just write about why my mom thinks I’m a lesbian. There are way fewer pics in that story.