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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