My Endless Love: Rasta Joe

This is a pretty frivolous post. It’s also pointless, silly, and a little dorky. But I’m going with it, because it’s also a happy post. And happy is always a good thing to be.

This, my friends, is Rasta Joe.

Rasta Joe

Yes, he really is a Rastafarian Monkey. While he may not be real, he does speak to me—in the same way a cute kitten or a funny joke does, at least. He makes me smile.

You see, I went to the local Show a few weeks back with my mother, cousin, Aunt, and Uncle. Being a bit country, we don’t do the show like most town folk would. We start at the cattle, checking out the new breeds, admiring the bulk of the beef stock, and the udders (yep, seriously) of the milkers. Then we check out the machinery, the show jumping, woodchop, and sheep-and-pig pavilion. My must-see is the working dog trials, and mum’s is the fashion parade, so they were scheduled into the day as essentials. By lunch, it’s time for a gawk at the prize bakers and crafters, a quick trip to get show bags, and then some food before home.

Mum doesn’t like flashing lights, and I’m not a fan of heights, so the rides of sideshow alley don’t usually tempt us, but Chica was keen for a couple of games of chance, so we wandered through the buzz and cat-calling. I had a go at the laughing clowns and failed miserably. That was where I’d planned to stop my spending, especially with each game costing five bucks! But then, at the very last tent, sitting among a stack of giant, plush soccer balls, I spied a gigantic Rastafarian gorilla. I had to make it mine.

Balloon darts. Easy! A little known fact for you: I’m strangely adept at darts. I step up to the mark, pay my ten dollars for five shots, and let rip. Thirty-four points! The big fella is worth three hundred. But, the carnie informs me, his little brother is only fifty, and she’ll give me two free darts if I play again. I spot the little Rasta monkey and fall in love. Another ten dollars, up to the line I go. This time I come away with forty-eight points. Combining my scores, I’ve cleared the fifty easily, and she tries to tempt me with a more fabulous prize—perhaps a pink frog, or a rather bulbous giraffe? Not a chance, lady! I sacrifice my extra points and reach for the dopey-eyed fella who has won my heart.

He came home with me, and now greets me every morning with his half-baked stare. Love him? How could I not?

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