In a staff meeting here at work yesterday, we were going down the project list when my boss mentioned that we were preparing for a new project down south called Gibraltar, and asked if any of our biologists had been there yet. I casually, but boldly, mentioned that I had.
“I’ve been to Gibraltar,” I said. “Went there on my (first) honeymoon. Got bitten by an ape.”
My boss, quickly recognizing that I was referring to a completely different Gibraltar than he was, laughed and said, “yeah, that’s not the Gibraltar I’m talking about!” and the conversation continued from there for a few minutes when suddenly, Matt, sitting next to me, said “Wait. You got bitten by an ape?!”
I laughed, thanked him and said, “Since the reality of my story is far less interesting that whatever you’re picturing, I think I’ll just leave the story right there.”
Everyone laughed and we got back to talking about the new project.
But for future reference, here is the story of the apes on the island of Gibralter, which to be more accurate are actually macaques, not apes (Oh, like YOU know the difference!):
And although my bite happened when I went to pet one on his head and just as I neared his head, he quickly turned, took a firm bite on (thankfully not from) my hand and went back to looking from his perch out at the ocean, it was not as bad as what happened to this guy.
The skin was broken and I kept checking it, oh, only about every 5 minutes the rest of the week to make sure there were no sudden tufts of hair growing out of my hand, but eventually it healed up and everything was fine.
(That’s the point where the few times I’ve ever told that story in person, I break into laughing like a monkey, scratching under my opposite arm.)
Which I bet you just did yourself.