Fossey reborn?

My females are oddly fascinated by the Republican Party’s candidate for vice-president. Not out of feminist solidarity, which is of no concern to lady gorillas. No, the reason is much stranger. They seem to think that Sarah Palin is the spitting image of the late Dian Fossey, a woman revered by gorillas throughout Africa. I’ve put up their pictures so you can judge for yourselves. If their features are even in the same game reserve I’ll chew my toes off.

Between you and me, gorillas aren’t very good at telling human faces apart – I only got the hang of it after years spent in the circus. I recently brought a copy of
Hello! magazine to the jungle. One of my females snatched it from me and studied a picture of Sienna Miller intently.

“I’m so glad she’s back in the limelight!” she hooted. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Dolly Parton.”

Heh! I didn’t have the heart to tell the poor deluded apette that Miss Parton was then having her boobs deflated at the Betty Hoover Clinic.

With the election approaching, I am already getting irritating e-mails asking me who I’m endorsing and similar such nonsense. This is when I have to thump my chest and remind people that I’m a gorilla. Your problems are not our problems, and the only American dream in these parts is the one the manager of the safari camp had after watching a movie called Forrest Hump (available on DVD). Until the candidates announce their policies for ridding the jungle of snakes and crocodiles, who gets into the White House is none of our business.

I suppose if I were forced to choose I’d back the ticket with the most body hair. Unfortunately this is pure guesswork when one of the candidates is a woman. Senator McCain is probably a hairy old dog when he takes off his vest, but who knows what Mrs Palin does to her feminine tufts? As a mother of five, one would hope that she doesn’t over-prune, but you never know the state of a woman’s foliage until you’ve seen her in the sauna. That is not a favour I’d care to ask of her, given that her husband looks like the Neanderthal type who might make a fuss. He has nothing to scare me, of course, but one doesn’t want to come between a man and his wife merely to further one’s reputation as a political pundit.

The wildcard in this election is supposedly the “Hilldog factor”. Will supporters of Mrs Clinton be so bitter that that they’ll vote Republican in the hope that Old Pop McCain quickly pops it and they’ll get their madam president after all. Well I’ve got news for them. I know for a fact that Hillary could never have won if she’d been the Democratic nominee. The Republicans, you see, had infiltrated a super-hot velcro-vixen into her campaign team, with the sole mission of seducing the former first lady and telling the world’s press what her cha-cha tastes of. And you can bet the lying hussy would have claimed it had some horrible flavour like "pickled herring" or "essence of hermit crab".
No presidential bid could have survived a political bombshell of that magnitude – the merest glimpse of Hillary’s jodhpurs would have made voters cry “Euw!” and pop a mint inside their mouths.

How do I know all this, I hear you ask? Because a fat American bloke in a baseball cap told me so while guzzling Budweisers at the safari guesthouse. Let no one say that Gorilla Bananas lacks credible sources for his scoops.

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