Our six-legged friends

Richard Gere feels guilty about slaughtering thousands of cockroaches in New York City. As a practising Buddhist, he is ashamed that he failed to “respect the life of an insect”, as the Dalai Lama has decreed. Perhaps his conscience would be lighter if he’d eaten the bugs rather than leaving their squashed carcasses for the crows to peck. Insects, of course, must be devoured. In their heart of hearts they know this themselves. Unable to practice birth control, they would otherwise multiply into gigantic swarms before feeding on each other. The kindest thing one can do is give them a merciful death by biting their heads off.

As a gorilla, I have eaten tens of thousands of insects. Does that make me a “bad Buddhist”, as Mr Gere seems to think? My hairy arse it does. I have never felt the slightest animosity towards any of the bugs I’ve snacked on. As they were valiant, I honour them; but as they were nutritious, I slew them. For every thousand I consumed, another million were hatched from their eggs. Mr Gere has confused respecting a life form with allowing it to procreate into a plague of biblical proportions. He should study the scriptures more carefully before advancing his pious opinions. I’m not going to take lessons in Karma from the man who exposed his todger in American Gigolo.

Bill Gates is an altogether more enlightened man. He has none of Mr Gere's mawkish concern for insects, having devoted a considerable portion of his fortune to the eradication of the mosquito.
Rachel Noy, the brainy Essex girl, has been following the tycoon’s philanthropic work with interest. Apparently, he released a bottle of the little buzzers at a conference to make a point. It was a brilliantly conceived stunt. People understand the importance of pest control much better when their bodies are covered with itchy spots. Is it any wonder that red-hot chicks like Rachel find the activities of Mr Gates infinitely more compelling than the sentimental musings of a narcissistic actor?

Let the record show that Gorillas Bananas is no wanton destroyer of creepy crawlies. Only last week, I humanely disposed of a spider at the safari guesthouse. I was about to retire for the night after my shift at the bar, when a woman in a dressing gown emerged from her room.

“Hey, Mr Bananas, there’s a spider in my bathroom!” she cried. “The horrible thing is making a web on the ceiling. Get rid of it for me, will ya!”

She was a middle-aged American lady with a similar voice to the actress Elaine Stritch.

“Can’t it wait until morning?” I said yawning. “If you close the bathroom door I promise it won’t sneak into your bedroom.”

“No it can’t wait!” she cried. “I want to have a shower before I go to bed and I’m not getting naked in front of that big hairy thing!”

“You're afraid it might get ideas and try to mate with your big toe?” I asked wryly.

“Hey smartass, I’m a guest here!” she barked. “You’re supposed to be helpful!”

“Lead me to the unwanted intruder,” I said with a sigh. There was no point reasoning with a woman in that sort of mood.

When we entered the bathroom, I observed that her statement regarding the spider’s position had been accurate. However, the long arms and quick hands of a gorilla possessed full spectrum dominance in this enclosed battle-space. I scooped the miniature monster into a nearby bucket, which I then continuously jiggled to stop it from scaling the pail. With the woman’s fulsome praise ringing in my ears, I emptied the contents of the bucket out of the bathroom window. Defenestration does not injure arthropods, and I assume it wandered away into the African night.

“I thought you’d just stomp on it,” said the grateful guest. “Isn’t that what you gorillas do?”

“Madam, you misjudge us,” I replied. “Stomping on arachnids is not in our nature, even inasmuch as the evildoers in their ranks would deserve such an ignoble fate.”

I bowed and left for my room.

So you see, the gorilla philosophy is live and let live: we are merciful in bathroom warfare and kill not except in judgment. And hunger, obviously.

I apologise to my lady readers for this picture, but some horrors
must be shared rather than kept to oneself.
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