Rock bottom

I’ve sent a ‘Get Well Soon’ card to Alejandra Guzman, the Mexican singer recovering in hospital from a bottom infection. The circumstances of her case are disturbing. It all started when she went to a clinic for a routine injection to improve the texture of her tush. Quite understandable for a woman in a profession where the shapely behind is de rigueur, although I could have helped her achieve the same end with a natural technique. It’s a pity she didn’t consult me first, but there’s no point crying over spoiled pumpkins.

She certainly wasn’t to blame for what happened at the clinic. It was pure bad luck that its director was a devious impostor with no medical qualifications. He had staffed the establishment with an assortment of ne’er-do-wells willing to accept nugatory wages for the sordid gratification of ogling and pawing the female posterior. With no understanding of proper sterilisation procedures, one of these Pedros pierced Ms Guzman’s hindquarters with a contaminated needle, causing severe inflammation and much tribulation.

Now we gorillas are especially sympathetic to those of our human cousins who have been injured in the backside. Justly proud of our own bottoms, which are taut and muscular to the umpteenth degree, it saddens our tender souls to hear of a rump defiled or cruelly abused. The psychological scars of a disfigured derrière run deep. You only have to look at the boorish and offensive behaviour of baboons to realise how having an ugly arse can effect one’s attitude to life. I hope Ms Guzman’s doctors bear this in mind when they’re treating her. They must avoid making insensitive remarks about the afflicted region and do all they can to preserve its natural symmetry. There are few more pitiable sights than a lopsided pair of buttocks.

She shouldn’t expect miracles though. Being nominated for the Rear of the Year award will be out of the question for the foreseeable future. I’ve often toyed with the idea of getting involved in this competition myself. Not as a contestant, of course. You can’t compare grapefruits with apples – the former are bigger, juicier and contain more vitamin C. No, my intended role would be sponsor and advisor. The reason I’ve not yet stepped forward is my unease about the method of judgement, which like so many things in human society is based purely on appearance. How can you really appreciate the quality of a butt without a manual examination? The discerning housewife always picks up and squeezes the fruit before putting it in her shopping basket.

I could always offer to judge the bottoms as well. You won’t find anyone more skilled at manipulating flesh than a gorilla. Our grasp is surprisingly gentle too – the contestants wouldn’t have to worry about bruises or bottom hickeys. Yet in the long-run I’d be worried about finger-cramp. Why should I provide the manual labour if I’m also sponsoring the prizes? Perhaps I should be responsible for hiring the judges instead. Does a fee of one dollar per posterior sound fair? To avoid tax problems they should pay us in cash.

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The Italian handjob

Silvio Berlusconi has made a big point of denying that he’s ever paid for sex, arguing that it would ruin the thrill of his conquests. I can well believe the call girls he invites to his parties don’t charge him. Pleasuring a sitting prime minister must be a great honour for them, as well as being the safest position at his age. I wonder if he asks them to put on an eye-mask and shout “Heigh-ho Silvio!” as they bounce up and down on his lap. As true professionals, they should do whatever it takes to flush out the toxic goo from his prostate gland.

They are also shrewd businesswomen, of course. Siphoning the prime minister of Italy must look pretty good on your résumé when you’re negotiating a fee with oil sheiks or TV evangelists. It’s a bit like John Travolta getting a free supply of Brylcreem after playing the young dandy in Grease. All the same, I hope that Mr Berlusconi gives them expensive presents as a mark of his appreciation. A gold-plated statuette of Cupid which urinates red wine is the sort of lavish gift one would expect from a man of his pedigree.

Working girls have unfortunately not been immune from the consequences of the economic downturn. Brothels around the world are cutting down on sundry expenses – some have even been reduced to serving their clients in the dark. The Pussy Club in Berlin has cut its fee to 70 euros for a hamburger and straight sex, which is a dubious tactic in my view. Cheap whores are like cheap jewellery – nobody wants to be seen buying them. They should have offered two-for-one deals and loyalty cards instead, with an eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet for the sex maniacs.

How to get the world economy booming again is a frequent topic of debate at the safari guesthouse. Not everyone supports President Obama’s plan of building new roads and bridges. An increase in the number of navvies flaunting their bare chests is a high price to pay for stimulating economic activity. A bald man who claimed to have a PhD in economics said that the correct policy was to distribute “helicopter money”. Essentially, this means emptying boxes of bank notes from a helicopter so that people on the streets below can pick them up and spend them. Monetarist theory says that this will boost business, making everyone rich again.

We all thought it was a brilliant idea at the time, but on deeper reflection the ploy seems to have a fatal flaw. What is to stop the pilot flying off to Venezuela with all the cash, where President Hugo Chavez, the demagogue and failed gorilla-impersonator, would surely offer him asylum? The trouble with economists is that they never think of these practical problems. I wish the bald-headed upstart were still here so I could massage some coconut oil into his scalp.

So what’s my solution to the slump? I’m glad you asked. What the world needs now is another gold rush like the one that prompted thousands of rednecks and desperadoes to migrate to California in 1848. Most of America’s gold is currently gathering dust in places like Fort Knox. Pulverising all this idle bullion and burying it in strategic locations around the country would cause booming mining towns to spring up like pimples on a teenager. The USA would once again be a land flowing with milk and cookies. And if they buried the gold near brothels, the sex workers would be the first to benefit from the increase in commerce. As John Maynard Keynes said, the prosperity of a nation is measured in the affluence of its whores.

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Backyard antics

Dallas police are trying to catch a masked fat man who sneaks into back gardens and dances in the nude. The nature of the dance wasn’t specified, but I’d guess it was closer to samba than waltz.

“We need to catch him before it develops into something more serious,” said Senior Corporal Janice Crowther.

Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of wishful thinking in that statement? I’ve never met Ms Crowther, but I assume she would rather arrest a notorious sex fiend than a pathetic exhibitionist. The former is an achievement that would put her in contention for the ‘Silver Handcuffs of Texas’ award, while the latter might make her the subject of an editorial in FEMDOM magazine. I sense she wants the garden prowler to up his game, so she can win acclaim as the plucky little lady who lassoed the long-horn bull.

Be that as it may, I don’t think this fellow is close to committing an assault. The next stage in the development of his act would be self-abuse. Have a look at the chimpanzees at your local zoo. When they get bored of dancing, the first thing they do is play with their genitals. The idea of breaking out of their enclosure and goosing a fat woman never occurs to them unless they have a burning grievance. I suspect that the Dallas Dangler has a long and crooked road to travel before he starts jumping on people.

Is exposing oneself in somebody’s back garden that big a deal? Opinions are divided at the safari guesthouse. A lady wrestler from California says the masked intruder would be welcome to do his thing in her place as long as he first booked an appointment.

“What would you do when he arrived?” I ask.

“I’d invite the neighbours to watch, video the performance, and tip him five bucks if he shook it up good.”

“What if he wasn’t satisfied with your tip?”

“People are always satisfied with my tips, baby,” she replies tartly.

It’s easy for her to talk, of course. He wouldn’t dare take liberties with a lady wrestler for fear of having his nipples tweaked. But if the average Dallas housewife saw him flaunting his flabby bits on her property, she’d be well within her rights to reach for her rifle and fire a warning shot between his legs.

If he ever turned up in my jungle retreat, I would shoo him away as discretely as possible – naked humans are a needless distraction for us gorillas and tend to attract mosquitoes. It would also be for his own safety. If my females got hold of him, he’d find out what it felt like to be a lump of dough in a bakery.

Given the zeal with which Officer Crowther is pursuing this case, it seems inevitable that the man will be caught sooner rather than later. I hope they don’t send him to prison. He obviously has an irrepressible desire to perform in public and I doubt he’d find the right audience in a Texas penitentiary. A more constructive sentence would be community service as a cowboy’s assistant in a rodeo. I, for one, would love to see a cigarette whipped out from between his butt cheeks.

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Indian in-law ruling

I’m in two minds over the Indian supreme court’s decision to give a man’s mother the right to kick her daughter-in-law. As a former circus ape, I know that kicking humans in a fleshy area of the body can be a playful and even affectionate gesture. The countless clowns whose bottoms were thumped by my foot never bore me any malice. If it were possible for in-laws to kick each other in the right spirit, it would be a good way of cementing family bonds and toning up the buttocks.

The nagging doubt in my mind is whether the typical Indian mother-in-law is suitably disposed to place an affectionate foot on her daughter-in-law’s posterior. I fear that she who delivers the foot wallop may be motivated by the Mother-of-Oedipus complex rather than a spirit of friendly horseplay. This psychological disorder causes post-menopausal women to be insanely jealous of the maiden who has married their son.

“How dare this Jezebel steal the affection of my boy, who used to rest his head against my motherly bosom, and now prefers to put it between her pert sugar-plums!” she subconsciously thinks. “She'll regret her sluttish ways when she feels my foot on her backside!”

Of course, we shouldn’t be too judgemental about the older female, whose short-temper is often a product of biology. When an ageing female gorilla starts getting grumpy, the first thing we do is find her a gigolo. There’s usually a young male who’ll do it out of respect for his elders and a general eagerness for hairy poontang. It’s normally just the thing to soothe her festering grudges and squash the bee in her bonnet.

I’m sure there is no shortage of likely lads in India who would bend their backs in a worthy cause (and for a generous stipend). The fellow who played the leading role in Slumdog Millionaire looks to have the right manner about him. On second thoughts, I’d make the quiz master do it as a penance for his duplicity and arrogance.

When you think about it, Indian brides are the last humans on Earth who deserve a good kicking. It speaks volumes about their sweet and subservient nature that they agree to live with their in-laws and put up with the persecution that seems to be their lot in life. You couldn’t imagine women in the West doing that. Few of them agree to marry without a separate home and strictly-controlled visiting rights for their in-laws. The mother-in-law is dealt with mercilessly if she dares step out of line.

If Indian matriarchs want to kick someone, I suggest they make the derrière of Guy Laliberté the target of their animosity. I met the circus impresario in my performing days, but sadly never had the opportunity to victimise him in the ring. His latest exploit was to blast into orbit on a Soyuz rocket while wearing a clown’s red nose. I believe he has ambitions to land on the moon.

Is it technically feasible to kick a man’s arse on the lunar surface? The Apollo astronauts never tried it and I’m not sure you’d get the required leverage in a low gravity environment. If it is possible, I shall certainly bribe one of Laliberté’s travelling companions to boot him in the seat of the pants during his moon walk. With any luck it will put him back into orbit.

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High seas heroes

A Royal Navy vessel has confiscated £240 million worth of cocaine from a boat off the coast of Columbia.

“We’re absolutely delighted about the operation,” said the skipper of the Iron Duke.

Apparently they caught the drug smugglers off-guard and pounced on them before they could brush the dust from their moustaches. I hope they showed no mercy to those wretched villains. Walking the plank would have been too good for them.

My advice to Captain Stacey is to handle the captured booty with care. Don’t let the crew snort it all at once, but ration it like grog in the days of Lord Nelson. Double the quota on special occasions like the Queen’s Official Birthday, or the date that Lady Hamilton was requisitioned for Royal Navy service.

We gorillas never take drugs, of course. If I want to get high I climb a tree. But we make no judgements about those who do, and will act as facilitators for humans who dope themselves up in a responsible manner.

My ancestor Bo’sun Bananas volunteered to serve on a Royal Navy ship before the Battle of Trafalgar. HMS Tightbore had been ordered to patrol the West African coast to intercept any French men ‘o war fleeing to the Cape. Many mariners have taken fright at the sight of big British guns shooting off in the heat of battle. After weeks of pleasant sailing in balmy tropical waters, the supply of alcoholic beverages was running low.

“The blasted crew will mutiny if we don’t find a port to re-stock!” exclaimed Captain Ignatius Porthole.

“The problem is easily solved, Iggy,” said Bo’sun Bananas. “All I need is a day’s shore leave to collect some ingredients from the Congo Coast. When these sea dogs have swigged my jungle punch they’ll forget they ever tasted rum or beer!”

Captain Porthole did as my noble forebear suggested, and five barrels of the finest jungle hooch were duly prepared. The crew lapped it up like cream on a harlot’s nipples, and performed their duties with greater diligence and efficiency than ever before. The impending mutiny having thus been averted, everything seemed to be shipshape. However shortly after putting out to sea, the captain accosted the bo’sun while he was reading Moll Flanders in the gun deck.

“Bananas, you hairy varmint, the crew have gone mad!” he thundered. “They’ve replaced the White Ensign with the first lieutenant’s britches and are watching it swing in the breeze, grinning like village idiots. I’ll be hanged if it’s not your damnable concoction that’s scrambled their wits!”

“Watch your language, little lady,” replied my venerable progenitor coolly. “The liquor I rustled up contains an extract from the Wanga plant, which sharpens perception and imagination as well as improving dexterity. If the crew want to fly the first lieutenant’s britches on the mast, it’s probably the best place for them.”

Captain Porthole stomped away grumbling and cursing, knowing better than to tangle with a gorilla. He was eventually persuaded to take some of the brew himself, which immediately calmed his turbulent disposition. He later relinquished command to the first officer so he could wander around barefoot on deck, singing sentimental ballads with his toenails painted red.

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