Reach for the sky

Dr Whipsnade’s chauffeur once tried to tease me about the final scene of that abominable movie King Kong.

“A gorilla climbing up the Empire State Building!” he jeered. “Very Freudian! Do you think it was penis envy, GB?”

“My dear fellow,” I replied, “the author of the screenplay was a man, not a gorilla. I suggest you delve into your own subconscious for the symbolism of that peculiar event.”

“Are you saying we have an unconscious desire for a gorilla to climb up our cocks?”

“Probably not as a rule, although most things are possible in human sexual fantasies. You are forgetting, however, that the building was quickly surrounded by warplanes, which the ape did his best to swat away. They were obviously the dreaded agents of a powerful castration complex.”

“But I don’t see how the gorilla fits into it.”

“It’s quite simple. The human male is terrified of mating in the open air, fearing that his penis will be bitten by mosquitoes or other flying insects. He imagines, therefore, that a benevolent gorilla (possibly a father figure) will defend his organ from their attacks.”

“You mean King Kong took all those bullets to save our dicks from harm? He’s even more noble than I thought!”

“Indeed, although this would never happen in real life. We gorillas have better things to do than protect a man’s penis. If you ever tried to satisfy your lust in the jungle, either with a willing partner or more probably through self abuse, there’s not a gorilla in Africa that would guard your groin. Your todger would have to fend for itself.”

“I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m having sex in the jungle!”

I smiled at the man and pointed at Dr Whipsnade’s niece, who was waiting in the hallway to be driven to a social function. I might have added that an insect in search of a quick snack would have no particular reason to home in on a man’s private parts – there are plenty of other appetising targets on his body. But it wasn’t my job to deal with a chauffeur’s irrational psychosexual fears. The shrink must eat, just like the mosquito, and should not be deprived of an honest living.

I thought of the above conversation on learning that the Russians are planning to build the tallest skyscraper in Europe, news which prompted me to scratch my chin in puzzlement. Isn’t the point of tall buildings to make the best use of scarce land in cramped conditions? Mother Russia is surely the one country on Earth where floor space is not an issue. One suspects this tower is intended to be a defiant virility symbol, signalling to the world that the Russian nation can still get it up.

It all seems rather vulgar and nouveau riche in a country famed for its suffering masses. Perhaps a more fitting monument would be a giant sphere made of candy for children and pensioners to lick. They could call it “Hitler’s Missing Ball” as an ironic reference to the Nazi dictator, whose remains are scattered in laboratories throughout Russia.

The problem with all these skyscrapers is that they’ve gotten too tall. I appreciate a good vantage point as much as the next ape, but if everyone at ground level looks like an ant you can’t see what the devil is going on. That’s why I have always been an ardent admirer of the blimp. These great gas-filled tits are wonders of the modern world, and it amazes me that everyone is so blasé about them. People go to football matches and say “Oh, there’s a blimp” as if they’re looking at a camel having a shit.

Maybe I should acquire my own Bananas Blimp. As well as using it for sight-seeing, I would hire it out for mid-air parties and orgies. For an extra fee, I would let the revellers fly over golf courses to jeer and moon at the players below in their silly checked trousers. There’s no point towering above people unless you can make them feel small.

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The Italian Knob

An Italian visitor declares that Silvio Berlusconi is the biggest “pezzo di merda” in Western Europe. I feel obliged to reprimand him for his intemperate outburst.

“Sir, your remark is uncharitable for the Christmas season. Western Europe is full of enormous pezzi di merda. Perhaps Signor Berlusconi is the biggest one in Italy, although he has tough competition, what with the Mafia and Lapo Elkann.”

There follows a civil exchange of views in which our guest cites the following examples of objectionable conduct by the Italian prime minister:

1) He wore a headscarf following a hair transplant operation, giving the excuse that he had whimsically decided to dress like a pirate.

2) He discussed his wife’s extramarital affairs with other European politicians.

3) He complimented the American president-elect on his tan.

I offer no mitigation for the first complaint. The leader of a civilised nation should never give succour to pirates, even if it is limited to copying their sartorial habits. We quickly dismiss the possibility that he had converted to Islam and was wearing the hijab. A hedonistic fellow like Berlusconi would never give up wine purely to adopt a particular form of headdress.

On the second allegation, I am far more inclined to leniency. Frankly, I can’t see much wrong in gossiping about your estranged wife’s sex life, even if the aim is to divert attention from your own debaucheries. A cuckold has his rights, and it wasn’t as if he was kissing-and-telling or revealing bedroom secrets. Indeed, his behaviour may have done much to dispel the unpleasant stereotype of the jealous Latin lover, chasing his rival with a meat cleaver.

On the third point, I am not sure what to think. Barry Obama certainly has a fine-looking tan, but drawing attention to it may be tactless. I know enough about humans to be aware that a hue obtained from a visit to the tropics is crucially different from a congenital complexion. All the same, I sense that Barry is the kind of man to take such remarks in his stride and give the wag making them a smack on the back for his impudence. He certainly has the sun-tanned look of a coffee-commercial actor. Perhaps he should star in such an advertisement with the Secretary of State presumptive, to help her pay off her campaign debts. Imagine them together on a yacht, Barry loitering on deck with his shirt unbuttoned as Hillary brings him light refreshment in a bikini:

“Mmm-hmm! You sure make a mean cup of coffee, Hilldog!” he might say after savouring a long sip with his eyes closed.

I hear that the hotels in DC are fully booked for Barry’s inauguration in January. I expect they’re all terribly excited about the speech he is going to make. I hope he comes up with some new material rather than rehashing all the old stuff about “change, we can do it, yes we can”. If I were his speech writer, I’d make sure Britney Spears got a mention after all the trouble she’s been through. It’s very easy to criticise a woman for exposing her shaven cha-cha to photographers, but don’t forget that she was driven to it by her ex-husband, a worm so disreputable that even other worms find him slimy.

Never have I witnessed a celebrity divorce where the blame was so much on one side. Had I been the presiding judge, I would have sternly rebuked the repulsive rapster before plucking him like a Christmas fowl.

“Federline,” I would have said, “you are a talentless bounder! I hereby give full custody of the children to Miss Spears. You must also give her all your assets, including the clothes you are wearing. Officer of the court, strip this man at once! Leave his briefs on, though, he has caused enough offence for one day.”

Anyway, I hope that President Obama finds a job for Britney in his administration. Nothing too important, just a little something to allow her to regain her pride and present the middle finger to her critics. Given the state of her nether regions, ambassador to Brazil might be a good post.


The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will return in one week.

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Stolen boobs, wet pussy

Last week, an Australian tourist asked me to pose for a photograph wearing a pair of joke breasts. I grinned and picked my teeth before answering.

“My respect for the human female prevents me from colluding in the mockery of her milk dumplings,” I said. “If you require a humorous memento, I will take a picture of you being groomed by lady gorillas.”

He declined my offer, and the incident would have merited no further concern had I not heard news of a mysterious theft. It seems that 130,000 inflatable bosoms, ordered by an Australian men’s magazine, have disappeared en route from Beijing to Sydney. Let us put to one side the question of whether producing comedy boobs on an industrial scale is an appropriate use of resources in the current economic climate. Property is property, and if our Australian visitor has been handling stolen goods – or even buying them opportunistically on the black market – he is certainly guilty of a serious offence.

Should I report him to the Australian authorities? I think not. Joke breasts notwithstanding, the man is our guest. He has eaten our salt, sniffed our pepper and contributed a generous sum to the economy of the Congo Basin. Admittedly, a considerable portion of that sum might have been earned from the illegal bosom trade, but is that our fault? Economic activity cannot grind to a halt because a handful of customers have acquired their wherewithal from shady dealings.

Human jurisprudence is a tricky business, make no mistake. Back in my circus days, I remember the case of a clown’s stolen breakfast kipper. The guilty party turned out to be a cat, who had entered the clown’s trailer through an open window and departed hastily with the fish in its mouth. The clown was caught off guard while doing his stretching exercises, but was able to identify the culprit as one of our camp followers. After apprehending the feline bandit, he took the highly unusual step of putting it on trial. The clown himself took on the roles of judge, prosecutor, defence counsel and jury.

I interrupted the proceedings near the end. As the cat fidgeted restlessly inside a cage, the clown put on a judge’s wig and readied himself to pass sentence. The vengeful buffoon would have hanged the animal had I not intervened on its behalf. Fortunately, my powers of persuasion impelled the judge to announce a brief recess. I then made the following points in the laconic style of Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men:

(1) the cat had only been following its instincts;

(2) the clown had left the window open;

(3) the trial would be invalid without an independent defence counsel and jury.

We eventually settled on a plea bargain: the cat would be drenched with a bucket of cold water before being set free. It was the best I could do for it in the circumstances and it suffered no serious harm from its chastisement. No physical harm, that is, I cannot speak for its psychological condition. I also extracted a solemn pledge from the clown not to seek further vengeance or harass the animal in any way.

That episode taught me a lot about humans. They love to express liberal sentiments about justice and compassion until they’ve been mugged – then they become hanging judges.

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Christmas shopping

An English tourist asks me if I’m keen on internet shopping.

“No, by God!” I reply emphatically. “In the first place, the monkeys would steal the goods I ordered. In the second place, there is nothing I would wish to order.”

“There must be something you want!” he exclaims. “Even gorillas need their toys.”

“It’s not a question of toys, my good man, but of trust! Didn’t you hear of the scoundrels who were arrested for selling fake penises on the internet? May they languish in gaol until they repent of their phallic fraud!”

“Seems a bit harsh,” he remarks. “If impersonating a cock is an imprisonable offence, half the male population of Dagenham should be doing time.”

Not being familiar with Dagenham, I decide to let him have the last word. I’m sure the place is nothing like as bad as he implies. All the same, I’ll remember to avoid it the next time I’m in England. Why take a chance?

It seems that a lot of people are using the internet as a less stressful way of doing their Christmas shopping. Thankfully, we don’t bother with such soulless chores in the jungle. Every Christmas, I present the manager of the safari camp with some freshly picked fruit and he gives me a portrait photo of his wife in return. A very good one, I should add. Someone must be pinching her bottom to get such expressions out of her. Anyway, these friendly gestures of seasonal goodwill do away with the need for vulgar commercialism and its attendant cash transactions.

I’m sorry to say that no similar custom existed in my circus days. Being the highest-paid performer, I felt obliged to splash out on Christmas gifts for my colleagues. After some vexing experiences in department stores, I hit upon the perfect solution in the form of Dr Whispnade’s goldsmith, one Joos ‘Juicy’ de Villiers. Born in South Africa, he fled the horrors of the apartheid regime in the 1970s and settled in a modest home in Mayfair. There was also a pending warrant for his arrest on smuggling charges, which he assured us were cooked up by the state security police to punish him for “helping the blicks” (as he put it).

Juicy’s speciality was gold coins, but not the ones issued by governments. He would mint you custom-made specie with any engraving that took your fancy. Being an imaginative ape, I designed an exquisite collection of ‘Bananarands’ to give as Christmas presents. The ladies loved coins with romantic inscriptions, e.g. a sleeping maiden beneath the epigram Your Head Forever On My Hairy Chest. The clowns preferred kinky ones, e.g. a drag performer with the words Old Man’s Petticoat inscribed thrice around the edge.

The wonderful thing about those gifts was the sentimental value they rapidly acquired. It soon became apparent that no one would sell their coins unless faced with the most abject penury. To this day, I know of a retired clown who refuses to part with his Bananarands to buy a new set of dentures. He would rather live on gruel and mashed potatoes than sell them for the handsome sum they would now fetch. Such honest devotion would have surely brought a tear to Scrooge’s pitiless eye. Think of that clown when you stagger away from this year’s Christmas lunch table, with bloated belly and giddy head. A human who values a treasured gift above false teeth is an example to us all.

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