Miss Scarlett Johannson has been occupying my mind recently. She reminds me of a young woman I met, many years ago, when performing with the circus in Stockholm. As my act drew to a conclusion, I noticed her staring at me intensely from the ringside. She stood up and stretched out her arms as I passed her on my way to the exit.
“Touch me please, Gorilla!” she implored in a clarion voice, clearly audible through the din of the applause.
I instinctively held out my hand, which she grabbed tightly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of relaxing her grasp, so I gently prised her fingers away and patted her affectionately on the cheek.
“I can feel it going! I can feel it going!” she exclaimed in rapture as she gazed into my eyes.
“Jolly good, young lady!” I replied, not having a clue what she was on about, but guessing she was better off without it, whatever it was. My intuition proved correct.
After the show had ended, one of the female acrobats, who had spoken to the girl before she left, explained her behaviour to me. The girl had believed that touching a talking gorilla (a magical beast in her eyes) would cure her of an unpleasant affliction. Indeed, she had attended the show for this very purpose. The ailment from which she sought relief was a yeast infection of the vagina – and my treatment had been wholly effective, if unintentional.
Many a human male in my position would have let an incident like this go to his head. He might have declared himself the prophet of a new cult and summoned the girl to his tent, instructing her in the ritual of the lingam massage. But being a gorilla, I knew better than to fritter away my time in such vainglorious escapades. This was clearly a case of the “placebo effect”, the ability of humans to heal their own maladies through sheer belief. Had the girl prostrated herself at my feet, I would have addressed her as Jesus once counselled the centurion’s favourite concubine:
“Verily, Miss Blondie, it was thine own faith what did it,” I would have said. “Go away and sin no more after first douching thy cha-cha with vinegar water.”
My current preoccupation with Miss Johannson is not purely because of her resemblance to that girl. I was interested to read that (a) she does not believe in monogamy and (b) she gets tested for the HIV infection twice a year. In isolation, each fact would signify little. Taken together, they suggest a lifestyle which carries the risk of something rather worse than a yeast infection. Is she in need of some motherly advice about loving relationships, safe sex and the new vibrating condom that can give a woman what she needs without the exchange of bodily fluids? Perhaps Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor might be persuaded to give her a call.
Let us pray that the talented Miss Johannson is not as reckless as she appears and continues to bloom in luscious health like the fragrant rose that she is. But if she does come down with something, I can’t promise to give her my healing touch. Call me selfish, but if I offer my hand to every blond girl who ends up in an STD clinic I’ll never have a minute’s peace. My loyal readers, who are dear to me, would be most welcome to visit me in the Congo if they are feeling poorly. Touch me if you must, but no funny business – keeps your hands where I can see them.
“Touch me please, Gorilla!” she implored in a clarion voice, clearly audible through the din of the applause.
I instinctively held out my hand, which she grabbed tightly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of relaxing her grasp, so I gently prised her fingers away and patted her affectionately on the cheek.
“I can feel it going! I can feel it going!” she exclaimed in rapture as she gazed into my eyes.
“Jolly good, young lady!” I replied, not having a clue what she was on about, but guessing she was better off without it, whatever it was. My intuition proved correct.
After the show had ended, one of the female acrobats, who had spoken to the girl before she left, explained her behaviour to me. The girl had believed that touching a talking gorilla (a magical beast in her eyes) would cure her of an unpleasant affliction. Indeed, she had attended the show for this very purpose. The ailment from which she sought relief was a yeast infection of the vagina – and my treatment had been wholly effective, if unintentional.
Many a human male in my position would have let an incident like this go to his head. He might have declared himself the prophet of a new cult and summoned the girl to his tent, instructing her in the ritual of the lingam massage. But being a gorilla, I knew better than to fritter away my time in such vainglorious escapades. This was clearly a case of the “placebo effect”, the ability of humans to heal their own maladies through sheer belief. Had the girl prostrated herself at my feet, I would have addressed her as Jesus once counselled the centurion’s favourite concubine:
“Verily, Miss Blondie, it was thine own faith what did it,” I would have said. “Go away and sin no more after first douching thy cha-cha with vinegar water.”
My current preoccupation with Miss Johannson is not purely because of her resemblance to that girl. I was interested to read that (a) she does not believe in monogamy and (b) she gets tested for the HIV infection twice a year. In isolation, each fact would signify little. Taken together, they suggest a lifestyle which carries the risk of something rather worse than a yeast infection. Is she in need of some motherly advice about loving relationships, safe sex and the new vibrating condom that can give a woman what she needs without the exchange of bodily fluids? Perhaps Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor might be persuaded to give her a call.
Let us pray that the talented Miss Johannson is not as reckless as she appears and continues to bloom in luscious health like the fragrant rose that she is. But if she does come down with something, I can’t promise to give her my healing touch. Call me selfish, but if I offer my hand to every blond girl who ends up in an STD clinic I’ll never have a minute’s peace. My loyal readers, who are dear to me, would be most welcome to visit me in the Congo if they are feeling poorly. Touch me if you must, but no funny business – keeps your hands where I can see them.
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