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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