I got a phone call from Kylie Minogue’s agent asking whether she could do anything for the gorillas of the Congo Basin.
“She could sit on top of a tree with a catapult and fire plum stones at any noisy parrots in the vicinity,” I suggested.
“Erm… we were thinking more along the lines of a donation and a photo opportunity,” replied the agent.
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “We’d be delighted to see her and I insist that she brings her boyfriend along. It’s been a while since my females had a man to play with.”
“Hmm,” pondered the agent, mulling it over in his head. “I’ll put your request to Miss Minogue and get back to you.”
“You do that,” I said. “And tell Kylie to ring back herself so we know we’re not being hoaxed by a hoaxer.”
The boyfriend in question is a Spanish model called Andres Valencoso, a mere ten years younger than Kylie. She shouldn’t worry about lending him to my females, because he’s told Hello magazine that he’s in love – with Kylie, one would hope. Call me a sentimental ape, but I’ve always believed that a man who’s in love can be trusted not to fool around. Even if my females did manage to excite him, he’d probably close his eyes and think of Kylie, which wouldn’t be cheating in the true sense of the word.
Kylie herself must be continually fighting the temptation to stray. Her waifish figure seems to bring out the beast in a certain type of man, and it's undoubtedly swollen her male fan base. In all honesty, she’s not the shape of woman that we gorillas admire. There’s simply not enough meat on her, and her posterior lacks that all important quality of squeezability.
This has no bearing on our appreciation of her music, of course. My favourite song of hers is Can’t get you out of my head, or “La-la-la, la-la, la-la-la” as it’s known in the jungle. Did you know that those “la-la’s” spell out the letters O-I-W in Morse code? Kylie has admitted that it's an acronym for “Ollie Is Wonderful”, a reference to her beloved Great Dane.
A lot of men are surprised (and possibly envious) of how fond women can be of big hairy animals. Back in my circus days, the ringmaster resented the attention I got from the all-girl acrobat team.
“How come they’re always fussing over you and stroking your fur and calling you ‘darling’?” he asked. “Anyone would think you were their Sugar Daddy or something.”
I eyed him archly before replying as follows: “It’s called affection, Ringmaster. It’s how women respond when you treat them kindly and aren’t obsessed with getting in their pants. I hope you will experience it yourself one day.”
He grunted like an ox and stomped off.
Such reminiscences make me all the more eager to receive Kylie in the Congo. It doesn’t bother me at all that she’s jumping on the gorilla bandwagon, following in the footsteps of Sigourney Weaver, Daryl Hannah and other damsels of note. My bandwagon is sturdy enough to bear the weight of a dozen Kylies.
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