Becoming one of us

Humans often ask me how to become an honorary gorilla. “GB,” they say, “you’re such a cool, fun-loving ape. How do I get to join your gang? I just want to hang out with you guys, chase some baboons and go to all your python-swinging parties. What do I have to do? Do you want me to bring you cocktails in your hammock? No problem. I’ll even massage your toes while you’re relaxing.”

My reply is always the same: “Tempting me with bribes is not the answer. You’ve got to earn our respect by finding your inner ape. Eat plenty of fruit and vegetables. Buy all the Tom Jones CDs and shake your booty to the beat. Move to the rhythm of the jungle. If you’ve got what it takes, our scouts will notice your talent.”

Most humans wait patiently for our decision, but every now and again we get a pushy character who tries to strong-arm us. I recently got a call from Hugo Chavez, the president-cum-dictator of Venezuela.

Ai GB, when ju gonna make me a gorilla?” he demanded. “I doin’ everything like a gorilla. I beat my chest, I eat no meat, I tell that gringo chimpanzee Bush to go to hell. I even look like a gorilla!”

“Mr President, it’s not that simple,” I replied. “We can’t even consider you for membership while you hold high office. Gorillas must stand aloof from human politics.”

CHINGA TU MADRE!” he shouted. “You think I leavin’ El Palacio just to join your club? I give you my cojones first!”

He terminated our conversation with that defiant offer. Between you and me, El Presidente will never be admitted to our ranks. There’s more to being a gorilla than thumping your chest and telling gringo chimpanzees to go to hell. It may surprise you to learn that we gorillas are rather fond of irony and understatement. We admire the human who can get his message across by raising one eyebrow, like Roger Moore or ‘Bones’ of The Enterprise. A blustering oaf like Chavez will never master subtle skills like that.

I should stress that it’s entirely feasible for a woman to become an honorary gorilla. Daryl Hannah received the accolade after starring in the film Splash. We were hugely impressed by her ability to wiggle her caboose inside a skin-tight fish tail. That takes some doing. What’s more, her adornments north of the tail were wholly natural, which is something we insist upon. One who fell foul of this requirement was Miss Pamela Anderson, who put her case to me in person at the safari camp.

“I’ve been a vegetarian since I was a girl; I’m a member of PETA; I’ve campaigned against the fur trade,” she said earnestly, as if reciting from a memorised script.

“All of which is most commendable, Miss Anderson,” I replied, “but there are other pertinent issues.…tangible attributes must be composed entirely of organic matter,” I said, trying hard not to stare at her breasts.

She looked puzzled for a few seconds, but then her face brightened in apparent comprehension. “Oh sure!” she exclaimed. “I only eat organic food from ethical farms. They grow their food ethically and treat all their workers ethically. It’s all very ethical.”

I scratched my neck while pondering how to make the point tactfully (and ethically).

“Are your breasts made of organic food?” I asked.

The blonde beach babe put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Do you wanna eat my tits?” she asked saucily.

“Who wouldn’t, Pammy?” I replied. “But the problem is that we gorillas are incredibly allergic to silicone.”

“Oh,” said Pamela, looking disappointed.

“I’m sorry, Pam, but we can’t admit anyone with surgically-enhanced hooters. Our females would have a fit.”

“Oh well,” said Pamela sadly, “I’ll guess I’ll just have to throw my energy into bush conservation.”

It warms the cockles of my groin to report that Pamela continues to support our causes without the slightest hint of bitterness. What a pity that so many humans look down on her as an airhead and a harlot. Those who are wise know that brains aren’t everything and that sexual promiscuity is never a sin for the pure of heart. A woman may be the whore of Babylon, but if her character is sweet she should be treated like a lady. I only wish she hadn’t inflated her boobs will all that squishy stuff. How I long for a picture of Pamela before she succumbed to the surgeon’s knife, sporting a nice little pair of home-grown tomatoes, ripe for the plucking!

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