California mooning

I hear the police in California are cracking down on the pastime of train-mooning. Apparently some of the mooners were getting carried away, stripping naked and performing lewd acts, allegedly of a sexual nature. Patrolmen were out in force to make sure they exposed themselves in a proper and fitting manner.

“It’s a tedious job but someone’s got to do it,” said Captain Buttweiler of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department.

It seems he was referring to the supervision of the event rather than the mooning. I’m glad his men had orders not to intervene unless it degenerated into an orgy. Prosecuting people for dropping their pants isn’t worth the bother unless they’re blowing poison darts out of their rectums (a skill which only certain pygmy tribes have mastered). These foolish humans should be dealt with in a measured way. Forcibly tattooing a portrait of Steven Seagal on each buttock might dissuade them from pursuing their hobby – assuming, of course, that mooners are capable of feeling shame.

Speaking as one who has been mooned on countless occasions by baboons, I would say that the shock effect diminishes each time you are subjected to it. Eventually, the only reaction it produces is a roll of the eyes and an involuntary snort, which has no ill effect unless you’re drinking a beverage. Just close your eyes when gulping down refreshments if mooners are nearby. Making a fuss about the whole thing simply gives them what they want, in my experience.

It’s far from clear, in any case, that train passengers actually object to such a display. It could easily pass for family entertainment in this age of hardcore pornography, as well as being a potential sightseeing attraction for visitors to California. There are only so many times you can walk down the Boulevard of Fame or take pictures of Dick van Dyke’s mansion. I foresee a day when Amtrak trains will be packed with tourists clicking their cameras at parades of pert bottoms, glistening in the California sunshine. All that’s required is a vetting procedure to prevent the saggy-arsed from participating.

America leads the world in using the human body for entertainment, something which is still too embarrassing in most of Asia. In China, for example, a man with two penises had one them surgically removed after his girlfriend gave him an ultimatum. I don’t blame her for putting her foot down – having a boyfriend with two appendages must have been very stressful, to say nothing of the indecision she would have felt in their intimate moments. But why didn’t some impresario offer the fellow money to display Huey and Dewey to a paying audience? Every man has his price, as J R Ewing once said.

If the Chinaman has any sense he’ll have the extra penis put into cold storage. A man never knows when he’ll need a replacement, given the growing number of women who consider the todger to be fair game in times of marital stress. Even when they are brought to justice, these dick-destroying harpies are dealt with very leniently. I believe the Russian woman who set fire to her ex-husband’s organ has already been paroled. Her future suitors would be well advised to put on a pair of asbestos underpants before taking her to their dacha.

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The Great Escape

Tourists have been asking me for my views on the great chimpanzee breakout from Chester Zoo in England. I tell them it is an event comparable with the mass escape of allied POWs from Stalag Lufters Drei (or whatever the place was called). The alpha males who organised the exploit no doubt modelled themselves on Steve McQueen, Dickie Attenborough and the other stars of The Great Escape. Not David McCallum, of course, who was too pretty for a chimpanzee. Nor Gordon Jackson, who was too Scottish.

“Does this prove that chimps and humans are closely related?” asks a man who could have passed for either.

“Yes,” I answer. “Like humans, chimpanzees deeply resent being imprisoned against their will. They despise the guards who withhold their fruit ration if they misbehave. They detest being stared at by fat children with ice cream all over their faces. Is it any wonder that they secretly dig tunnels and forge travel documents in preparation for a daring escape?”

“How do they keep their spirits up?” he asks.

“By whistling a catchy tune which expresses their cheeky defiance in the face of adversity,” I reply.

Having said all that, I’m glad they were caught soon after the breakout. A secure enclosure in a zoo is a far better place for them than the mean streets of Chester. Like most English towns, its public spaces are infested with surly adolescents, gossiping fishwives and undercover policemen on the lookout for kinky sex. Not a safe environment for chimpanzees by any stretch of the imagination.

Even if they’d made it to the countryside their position would have been hopeless. There are no neutral countries bordering England that would have offered them refuge. Scotland is actually an enemy country, but its menfolk have no love of chimps, viewing them as unwelcome competition. Wales, by contrast, is an ape-friendly nation, but its inhabitants are craven patsies of the English. Fugitives from across the border are hunted down by posses of squat-necked rugby players and handed over to the haughty minions of the Crown.

“Back you go, my hairy boyos!” they would have said to the hapless chimps. “The last time we played silly buggers with the English we got longshanked by King Edward I and what have you! Don’t involve us into your quarrels!”

The only human organisation that genuinely supports chimp freedom is NASA, which liberated a good number of them from the surface of the Earth back in the 1960s. Some people claim that the space-chimps were mere guinea pigs, but the same could be said of Armstrong and Aldrin, who were dispatched to the moon to show how bouncy its surface was. Firing a giant tennis ball into space would have achieved the same result, yet Neil and Buzz were determined to risk their lives as their chimp cousins had done.

This explains why the chimpanzees of the Congo celebrated the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission by getting pissed and raping a few baboons. Primate brotherhood is truly a wonderful thing.

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Glowing monkeys

Japanese scientists have created a new breed of monkey that glows in the dark. A fat lot of use that is. A good night’s sleep is already a tall order in the jungle, thanks to squawking parrots, farting elephants and other nocturnal disturbances. The last thing we need is the added distraction of luminous monkeys hopping about in the branches overhead.

I’m sure the scientists meant well. The probably wanted to prevent the monkeys from sneaking around unseen at night, raiding larders and pissing in water tanks. Such concerns, however, are quite unnecessary. Monkeys may be shameless thieves and vagabonds, but they are also abject cowards who fear the dark. After nightfall they ascend to the treetops, fidgeting nervously until sleep overtakes them. Rather than pissing in water tanks they piss in the wind, causing untold aggravation to whoever is resting below. It's about time they bred monkeys that can hold their water until daybreak.

A lot of humans are very worried about scientists messing around with DNA, dreading the creation of a hybrid monster with the chest of a man and the arse of a horse. Such fears are the product of movie-induced hysteria. Evil scientists like Dr Strangelove and Professor Badass simply don’t exist in the real world. Deep down, the boffins yearn to be loved by the masses for their good deeds and cleverness. Look at the way Einstein courted publicity and flirted with the ladies in his funny German accent. There are a few mad ones, of course, but any occupation has its fair share of kooks.

Gene therapy should be embraced by humankind with open arms and grateful bosoms. God willing, it will eliminate much of the demand for cosmetic surgery. I find it tragic that so many nubile women want breast implants, and shocking that some have unspeakable things done to their cha-chas. If molecular biologists could identify the coding required for a standard pliant pair of titties, many women would be saved a lot of needless angst about their bodies. Perhaps there are also genes that will keep things tight and tidy down below.

I once mentioned these possibilities to a fashion model at the safari guesthouse. “Miss,” I said, “one day, genetic engineering will enable all women to have a body like yours. Although with all due respect, I would hope that many would opt for something a little more curvaceous.”

My suggestion seemed to irk her. “I work very hard to keep in good shape,” she huffed. “If any woman could look like me, what would be the challenge in life?”

I left her question unanswered. One should not quarrel with guests if one can help it, and usually I can help it. I changed the subject by asking her to name her favourite brand of perfume, which softened the frown on her face. Don’t ask me what it was, I have no memory for brands of perfume.

After we parted company, I reflected wryly on our conversation. Imagine thinking that having an attractive figure is the main challenge in life! It is an ambition that is bound to lead to disappointment in the fullness of time. If these models are too slender to bear children, I would advise them to take up horticulture and grow their own fruit. As Dr Whipsnade once said, cultivating your own plums is a challenge that will last a lifetime.

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Crime of passion

News arrives of a man who is marrying a woman who stabbed him. He seems to be a pretty shrewd judge of character. When a female of the same species tries to kill you, she either loves you or hates you (unless you are a spider, when she’s just hungry). The problem for the male is deciding who is which and which is who. In this case, the man seems to have got it right. He and the woman were lovers before she caught him showing an old injury to her best friend, which required him to drop his pants. Misunderstanding what was going on, his jealous sweetheart bayoneted him from behind with a sharp instrument. She fortunately missed his vital organs and he made a full recovery.

You’ve got to respect a man who forgives his girlfriend for smiting him hip and thigh. Heaven knows why he wanted to expose a previous wound to another woman. Let’s hope he can keep his newest one to himself. We gorillas pick up a fair number of scrapes and scratches in the course of our jungle activities, but have no wish to draw attention to them unless we are seeking medical attention. Female gorillas simply aren’t interested in how many scars you’ve got beneath the fur.

I sincerely hope the man won’t regret his decision. To be on the safe side, I’d advise him to put on an army flak jacket before getting into the marital bed. The woman is clearly madly in love with him, but she may have unresolved issues floating around in her subconscious. Just one flashback of the pants-dropping incident might re-ignite old animosities and prompt her to reach for the scissors on the bedside table. Even so, the judge was surely right not to send her to prison. She obviously poses no danger to anyone but her fiancé, and he seems quite happy to take his chances.

“I don’t think this would ever happen again,” was his confident assertion after she walked free with a suspended gaol sentence.

His optimism does him credit, but he may have underestimated the stresses and strains that occur in the marriages of today. Even if he’s learned his lesson about exposing himself to other women, his future wife will still have to put up with his annoying habits, whether they be snoring, wheezing or the hawking of phlegm. The continual drip-feed of such provocations might cause her to snap no less violently than she did when she caught him with his pants down.

What the woman really needs is a way of releasing her pent-up anger regularly, so the pressure doesn’t build up until she erupts like a volcano. Smacking him on the head with a rolling pin is the traditional method, but his head is already a funny shape and she might not know when to stop. I would favour lending her an electric cattle prod once a week, so she can get it out of her system without maiming the man or exerting herself unduly. It won’t be much fun for her spouse, but it beats getting stabbed.

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Animal lovers

Got a call from little Charlotte Uhlenbroek the other day. She’s recently appeared in a series of wildlife documentaries on British TV, visiting the great apes and trying to sort out their problems. The problems, it must be said, remained largely unsolved. On the plus side she did manage to goad a few chimpanzees into tickling her, which made her giggle like an excited schoolgirl. On strength of this performance she asked me to nominate her for Animal Lover of the Year.

“I’ll put your name forward, Charlotte, but I can’t say your chances are good,” I said. “Last year it was won by a fellow who sucked a cow’s udders. This year we’ve had reports of a man who wanked off a dolphin. That’ll be stiff competition, as you can imagine.”

“They’re so fucking sexist, GB!” squeaked Charlotte angrily. “They’ve never given it to a woman, have they? Do I have to suck off a chimp or something?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, Charlotte, they’d be queuing outside your tent once the word got out. Why don’t you try something with the hoofed animals instead? The judges are always impressed by women who can ride the herbivore bareback.”

“Not bloody likely, GB, my arse is sore enough as it is!"

I said I would do my best to make her case from her work with the apes.

I have to admit that I lied about the man who wanked off a dolphin. That incident occurred a long time ago, so the perpetrator wouldn't be eligible for this year’s award. I wanted to lower Charlotte’s expectations without telling her about the real favourite: an Ohio woman who allows a squirrel to reside between her breasts. One shouldn’t put such ideas into the head of an impressionable TV naturalist.

So what about this woman from Ohio? Apparently, the first person to find out about her furry tenant was a police detective. He was interviewing her about an unrelated felony when the bushy-tailed rodent popped out of its hiding place and tried to escape. Less nervous creatures than a squirrel have cracked under the strain of a dogged interrogation. The woman promptly reassured the animal and put it back into its cosy refuge. They obviously had a relationship based on mutual trust and affection – bosom buddies, so to speak.

Now on the face of it, this woman showed great hospitality in allowing Little Nutkin to nestle between her norks. It has all the appearance of a selfless act carried out by a true lover of furry creatures. However, a breast boffin called Cathinka Chandler claims that parting the chest cleavage is actually good for the boobs, preventing them from wrinkling and sagging. She has invented a device called The Kush which is essentially a glorified titty-separator. She claims that women who sleep with one lodged between their baps will wake up in the morning with a bust to be proud of.

All of which suggests that the woman from Ohio had a selfish motive for her squirrel-friendly behaviour. That’s typically human, isn’t it? You think they’re doing something out of generosity of spirit, when in reality they have an ulterior motive. Let’s hope the judges can see through her wiles.

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Bitter lemon

I’m a pretty phlegmatic ape, but every now and then someone manages to get on my tits. The latest character to accomplish this dubious feat was a fellow called Coley Laffoon. From the minute he entered the safari guesthouse he was full of peevish asides about his former wife, the actress Ann Heche. Initially I felt sorry for the blighter, and when he sat at the bar one evening I listened patiently to his griping.

“Well cheer up,” I said at length. “It’s not many men who get a lesbian to change sides. No one can remove that feather from your cap.”

“Lesbian, my ass!” he snapped as he gazed into his drink. “The whole thing with Ellen Degeneres was a sham for publicity. After we got hitched I said she could bring home any girl she liked for a threesome. Or just for me to watch. But she never did, not even once.”

“Maybe you completely cured her of the Sapphic urge,” I suggested with little conviction. He didn’t seem like the Sapphic-curing type.

His only response was to make a noise like a punctured tyre.

After a while he resumed his carping, declaring that his ex-wife had “fucked him over good” by consorting with various actors, one of whom had impregnated her. I began to tire of his bellyaching and made plans to move out of earshot. But before I could do so, he initiated a new line of complaint about the insufficient alimony she was paying him. This was too much to bear silently. A man who advertises his financial dependence on a woman who has shunned his bed is utterly devoid of dignity.

“Stop whining, you ungrateful cuckold!” I barked. “The settlement you obtained is evidently a generous one given that you are now on a de luxe safari!”

I strode away to let him stew in his sour juices. After my shift, I entered the manager’s office to do a little research on the computer. It seems that this Laffoon poltroon was deeply complicit in the dissolution of his marriage, having spent a good portion of his leisure time playing ping-pong and watching porn. Imagine how frustrating that must have been for Ms Heche. You are playing table tennis with your spouse, hoping to improve your game, and he’s continually making you wait between points while he watches some big-titted blonde perform the reverse cowgirl (or whatever it’s called). In Ms Heche’s place, I would have downed my bat until he had finished the movie.

Come to think of it, I don’t see why a man with an attractive wife should watch pornography at all. Using a mixture of flattery and lewd cajolery, he should be capable of persuading her to engage in 90% of the acts one finds in tasteful erotic entertainment. The fact that Laffoon was apparently unable to do so testifies to his mediocrity and general unworthiness.

Now I’m not saying Ms Heche is blameless in this affair. She is clearly at fault for (a) marrying a dullard and (b) behaving like a hoochie rather promptly rectifying her error. But the balance of culpability always lies with the party who complains the most, particularly when I have to hear it. May Laffoon be afflicted with a boil on his backside. And may the nurse who lances it be a poor but enthusiastic darts player.

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A chimp is bereaved

So it seems that Michael Jackson died from an overdose of grapefruit juice. Poor chap. It’s all too easy for a famous singer to acquire such dangerous habits. Barry Manilow was addicted to Dr Pepper for many years – it got so bad that his sneezes sprayed a fine mist of the soft drink into the atmosphere. He might have killed someone if they hadn’t fitted filters inside his nostrils. Let us hope that Michael’s tragic end will alert people to the toxic menace of the grapefruit.

Jacko’s sad demise means the title of “Whitest Black Man on Earth” is once again up for grabs. Obviously it should go to a real person rather than a mountebank like Ali G. Producing a shortlist that everyone will agree to will be a major challenge. Many will insist that Mungo Jerry should be a candidate, while others might put forward the name of some obscure Nigerian albino. To my way of thinking only A-list celebrities should be allowed to compete, which rules out Mungo Jerry. Lionel Ritchie has a pretty strong case, but I think the bookie’s favourite will be Tom Jones.

The rumour that Bubbles the chimp will inherit $20 million from the Jackson estate is causing much excitement in the jungle. No one expects Bubbles to make a gratis donation, so the chimps in my neighbourhood are angling for a share of the loot. Being shameless whores, their preferred scheme is prostitution. Even the local alpha males are saying they’d take it up the butt from Bubbles for a generous stipend. Personally, I hope he doesn’t give them a cent. If he has any sense he’ll tour the globe from zoo to zoo, bribing the keepers to let him shag the captive females. Having spent all those years in Never-got-laid-land he has plenty of lost time to make up for.

I hope, above all, that the will isn’t contested. It depresses me beyond measure to see the relatives of a deceased human descend on the corpse like squabbling vultures to peck at the bones. I am sure that Bubbles will accept his bequest with good grace, whatever its magnitude. May Jacko’s family show similar respect for the wishes of their departed son.

Having accumulated a tidy amount of cash from my circus career, I have left very precise instructions for its disbursement following my death. After a decent period of mourning, my lawyers will announce that all my assets are to be donated to the Gay Orangutans’ Benevolent Fund. This will be a ruse. I have no intention of leaving any money to the gay orangutans, who are perfectly capable of fending for themselves. The purpose of the hoax would be to smoke out undeserving characters from my list of potential inheritors. After making the bogus announcement, my lawyers will apply the following rules:

• anyone who attempts to contest the will gets nothing;

• anyone who complains (or insults my memory) gets a bunch of sour grapes and a raw onion;

• anyone who says “Well done gay orangutans!”, or words to that effect, may claim an equal share of my estate;

• anyone who attempts to pass himself off as a gay orangutan gets a pair of vinyl hot pants and a bottle of lube.

You can’t take your money with you, but you can certainly make the living jump through hoops to get their hands on it. It is a posthumous consolation of sorts.

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