Sizing up Megan

Megan Fox has the perfect face, according to Professor Kang Lee of the University of Toronto. He bases his claim on metrics such as the distance between her eyes, the distance between her ears, the distance between her nostrils, and so forth. Having ogled the portraits of innumerable women, and fed their facial-statistics into his computer, the learned professor genuinely believes he has a foolproof formula for picking out the lookers.

Call me a suspicious ape, but I don’t see why it was necessary to name Ms Fox in the cause of scientific progress. If the good professor has the hots for young Megan, he ought to send her a lewd text message rather than couching his compliments in technical jargon. Although she’s currently dating a little-known C-list actor, her recent confession that she can’t hide her love of sex suggests she is very much open for business when the right offer comes along. That doesn’t mean she’ll spread her legs for Professor Lee, but if you don’t ask you don’t get.

When I mentioned this mathematical theory of beauty to the manager of the safari camp, he smirked, scoffed and frowned in quick succession.

“A woman’s face doesn’t tell you everything,” he said. “What about her body?”

He had a point. In the next phase of his research, Professor Lee should amass a database of body dimensions and look for patterns there. A trapeze artist once told me that if the distance between a woman’s nipples is equal to the distance between her navel and her cha-cha, she is an insatiable sex kitten. I took his word for it at the time, but now I would like to see it confirmed with scientific data. The professor ought to let the women take their own measurements to maintain his objectivity and avoid getting his face slapped.

There’s nothing wrong with admiring a good-looking woman, but I don’t believe in overdoing the flattery. If girls get too obsessed with trying to look pretty they lose the knack of making funny faces. Consider the actresses who played Laurel and Hardy’s wives. They used their faces to express a wide range of emotions, ranging from sullen resentment to the dagger-eyed fury which precedes a vicious assault. Maybe Susie Essman in Curb Your Enthusiasm has a face of comparable qualities, but these days most actresses just want to look cute.

It’s not only hot-tempered bitchy women that are fun to watch (from a safe distance). There are many interesting moods that a woman’s face can project – contempt, disgust, sarcasm, a knowing look that makes the recipient feel like a boy who’s crapped his pants. Now that Mrs Slocombe and her pussy have gone to that big ladieswear section in the sky, only Dame Edna Everage can do justice to the art, and she is allegedly a man.

Is there even a female blogger who will make funny faces in this day and age? Sassy Miss Kara used to do it frequently, but after settling down and buying a condo she seems to have misplaced her mojo. It’s a sign of the times, I tell you.

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Paris in Rio

I hear that Paris Hilton is suffering from a bad case of bottom-envy after visiting the Rio Carnival. No surprise there. The sight of all those of pert posteriors wiggling in the sunshine must have left her feeling thoroughly dejected. Her own butt is nothing special, of course, although she probably never realised it before. A floozy of her calibre tends to believe all the flattery she gets from the dandies and gigolos she consorts with. Frustrated at being upstaged, she agreed to appear in a beer commercial in which she grovelled on all fours like a cow in heat. How the Brazilians must have laughed!

I’ve never understood the popularity of these carnival processions. People dress up in funny costumes and prance down a street expecting onlookers to gasp in admiration. I don’t begrudge them their fun, but it’s hardly great theatre. If you tried to fob off a circus audience with that sort of thing they would throw bottles at the ringmaster. I suspect people who attend such events are driven by the herd instinct. When they see a crowd assembling, they assume it must be a good place to go. The great wildebeest migrations in Africa operate on the same principle.

I appreciate a taut pair of buns as much as the next ape, but that doesn’t mean I would stand in a crowd and bake in the hot sun for a fleeting glimpse. If I wanted to ogle booty in Rio, I would go to the beach and watch the women play volleyball while I relaxed beneath a sunshade. The great thing about ladies’ sports is that you can hoot and whistle to your heart’s content without appearing uncouth. When Martina Hingis won points with her overhead smash, no one knew whether I was applauding her skilful play or her jiggling jahoobies. I wasn’t sure myself, to be honest.

An English tennis instructor on safari once said that lesbians should be banned from the sport.

“Do you think they have an unfair advantage?" I asked, mindful of Navratilova’s bulging forearms.

“It’s not that,” he said. “The problem is corruption. What’s to stop them from throwing matches in return for sexual favours?”

I considered his argument with pursed lips and found it wanting.

“Are you suggesting that non-Sapphic women would offer their bodies to a fanny-fister merely to progress to the next round?” I asked. “Surely women are not so ready to act contrarily to their nature.”

“Women have a different attitude to men about same-sex activities,” he asserted. “They don’t find it disgusting however straight they are. To them, it’s no worse than putting your trousers on back-to-front.”

I tried to picture Mrs Clinton with her trousers on back-to-front, but the image failed to gel in my mind.

“As I do not wear trousers, I find it difficult to comment on your analogy,” I said. “I nevertheless maintain that banning lesbians from tennis would be a retrograde step.”

“Please yourself,” he replied laconically. “I never knew gorillas were so PC.”

I think of this conversation whenever humans associate gorillas with reactionary tendencies. In truth, we are a progressive force in the jungle.

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What women want

A Canadian professor has written a paper about what women look for in a husband. He was good enough to send me a copy in the hope that I’d confirm that female gorillas have similar preferences. For some reason, humans love it when they share behavioural traits with their primate cousins. It seems they don’t quite believe something is truly “human nature” unless we apes are doing it as well.

Now the professor’s theory is very simple. Women, he claims, want a husband who is nice. Their instincts tell them that a man who is kind to animals, and possibly his mother, is likely to be a good father. And since breeding is the ultimate aim of the game, the woman who marries a decent cove will find it easier to raise more children. Not all women find a nice guy, of course: there simply aren’t enough of them to go round. So the unlucky damsels have to let some bastard impregnate them if they want to breed. Not the optimal solution for parenting, but better than a poke in the nostril.

So how do female gorillas compare? They are virtually the same with one subtle difference. Niceness is a virtue they adore, but only when it is directed towards them. Altruism in the general sense of loving God’s creatures does not rank highly in their list of priorities. If I were to make a habit of being kind to baboons, my females would certainly mock me for being a sentimental dupe. And if I tried to befriend a crocodile, they would assume I’d gone bonkers and report me to nearest hairy nutball sanctuary. In their eyes, niceness is a precious commodity not to be wasted on the flotsam and jetsam of the animal kingdom.

But let’s get back to women. Is the professor’s hypothesis entirely valid? My main source of data is the female acrobats I knew in my circus days. I can say, without exaggeration, that I became their hairy confessor. Believe me, dear readers, they told me stuff, some of which I will never reveal. All of them intended, at some stage in their young lives, to marry a fellow richly endowed with niceness. One of them actually did so when I was there and left the circus. After a year of married life, she returned for a visit to catch up on old times. Betwixt the merrymaking and fraternising, she came to see me for a quiet chat.

I asked her how she liked being a wife and she said it was great, but I could see something was bothering her. After some gentle probing, she told me that her husband was a sweet, gentle honeybun who no longer excited her sexually. The only way she could get off in bed was to close her eyes and fantasize about Lieutenant Worf. I told her not to worry about it. Lieutenant Worf was the kind of Klingon who inspired strange yearnings in females of all species. I wouldn’t be surprised if Counsellor Troi was thinking of him when that schmuck Riker was nibbling her earlobes.

So in conclusion, I would attach a qualification to the professor’s learned thesis. Women do indeed want an affable husband – during mealtimes, household chores, outdoor recreation, visits to the in-laws and, most importantly, shopping trips. At bedtime, however, they may harbour a secret desire to be ravished by the Big Bad Beast. I wish I could help them to square that particular circle, but sadly I have no recipe for Dr Jeckyll’s potion. And I’m certainly not a Big Bad Beast, so you can put that thought out of your head.

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Britney's squirrel denial

Britney Spears has denied eating squirrel, but did anyone believe it in the first place? Having chased one of those critters up a tree, I am certain that no human is agile enough to catch one. Certainly not Britney, whose dopey face suggests slow reflexes and poor hand-eye coordination. What’s more, there isn’t nearly enough meat on a squirrel to justify the effort. When I finally grabbed the one that stole my nuts, I thought “this puny little rodent wouldn’t feed an anorexic weasel.” Not that I had any intention of eating it myself, of course – we gorillas are fastidious in abstaining from unauthorised meat products.

Now that Britney has responded to the squirrel allegation, it can only be a matter of time before she is forced into further denials. There is no end of furry mammals that an unstable young singer from a Hillbilly family may be plausibly accused of eating. Possum, raccoon, coyote, beaver? I doubt she’s tasted any of them, yet after making such a fuss about the squirrel story I can’t help wondering.

A circus clown once accused me of eating his pet gerbil. “Gorilla Bananas ate my gerbil” was the line he gave people who noticed the gerbil was missing. I knew at once that denying this absurd story would be undignified and counterproductive. “He who denied it, supplied it” was a popular saying of the time. So I responded with satire, putting up a succession of gerbil recipes on my trailer door. Here are some of those dishes:

Roast gerbil with parsnips and carrots

Southern fried gerbil with sweet potatoes and corn

Smoked gerbil with runner beans and wild mushrooms

Stir-fried gerbil in yellow bean sauce with rice noodles

Gerbil stew with broad beans and shallots

People soon got bored of hearing about gerbil main courses and started accusing the clown of being my stooge in a comedy routine. This upset him so much that he went to a psychiatrist to get over the loss of his pet. Under hypnosis, the clown revealed that he’d trodden on the gerbil by mistake and thrown its squashed carcass into a cement mixer. The memory of this event was so painful that he’d repressed it, substituting the false story involving me. I forgave him the calumny because he’d genuinely convinced himself of its truth. One must show compassion to the mentally unhinged whenever possible.

If I were Britney’s manager, I’d tell her to stop responding to the gossip sheets and take control the debate herself. No one will speculate about her appetite for bushy-tailed rodents if she gives them juicy titbits from the filly’s mouth. A confession is worth more than a hundred second-hand stories.

Christina Aguilera is one who has adopted this strategy, recently declaring that she feels irresistibly sexy in the nude and would rather see pictures of naked women than naked men. Unlike the Britney-eats-squirrel story, this is entirely credible and gives the reader useful information in relatively few words. It also diverts attention from Christina’s dietary habits, whatever they may be.

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Sizzling rump steak

“Australian girls are having their bottoms branded!” exclaims the manager of the safari camp, handing me a news clipping.

I inspect the documentary evidence impassively before responding.

“So they are – it seems to be some kind of fashion statement.”

“Hah!” sneers the manager. “The only statement they make by branding their backsides is ‘I am somebody’s cow’!”.

“In that case most of the first ladies in Africa ought to do it,” I remark.

I later realise that proof of ownership may indeed be the motive. Australians consume so much alcohol during their barn dances that they lose the ability to recognise faces. Your average sheep-shearing ocker might take the wrong Sheila home, not realising his blunder until he pulls down her knickers and sees the brand of his best mate. Australians are an honourable breed, so he’d ring his buddy immediately to inform him of the mix-up.

“Bruce, me old cobber,” he might say, “I’ve taken your girl home by mistake. If you’ve got my girl we’ll call it quits and carry on with the business. If you’ve got someone else’s girl we’ll settle up later. I’ll buy you a crate of beer or something. No worries.”

We gorillas never have this problem because our sense of smell is too acute. I could sniff out a mate of mine if she got inside a pantomime horse and whinnied like a mare. A randy young female once infiltrated my harem during one of our nocturnal orgies. I knew she was an intruder from the first whiff of her lady parts.

“Hang on a minute!” I cried as she attempted to curtsy on my face. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced!”

“I’m from the virgin forest upstream,” she confessed. “I heard about your orgy and thought you’d let me gatecrash. You won’t be disappointed, my pelvic action has the power of a crocodile’s tail.”

I gave her a look of cool disapproval. You don’t impress an experienced silverback with that kind of vulgar boasting.

“A powerful pelvis is no passport in my domain, young lady.” I replied sternly. “If you’d like to join my harem I’ll consider it, but not before I’ve discussed the matter with your father.”

“My father ran away to Gabon when I was an infant,” she said sadly. “He joined a band of nomadic apes who believe that the secret of eternal youth is never to mate with the same female twice. I’ve not seen him since.”

I grunted sympathetically and gave her some nuts to eat. Why is it that the most promiscuous females always seem to have absentee fathers? Perhaps they subconsciously believe that being deserted by their dad means that any variety of bozo is good enough for them. Not that I’m a bozo, of course, but you see the point I’m driving at.

This rather pitiful anecdote casts a dim light on the bum-branding broads from Down Under. In a world where errant fathers leave their infant daughters to fend for themselves, is there any excuse for subjecting one’s buttocks to such flagrant abuse? It won’t improve the flavour of the meat, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t want to taste it in any event, being a vegetarian.

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Name calling in Amsterdam

I’m writing a letter of protest to the Mayor of Amsterdam about the conduct of his deputy, Lodewijk Asscher. This insolent upstart has stated that only the biggest creeps are found on the streets between the hours of 4am and 8am. As one who habitually rose at the crack of dawn in his circus days, I often enjoyed an early-morning stroll to inhale the virginal air of a new day. These jaunty excursions were conducted in exemplary fashion: I did not peer into windows or sift through garbage or engage in other disreputable activities. This ass Asscher must withdraw his remark forthwith or be declared an enemy of the gorilla nation.

I should add that I never saw any humans who were conspicuously creepy either. The few who were out and about seemed too preoccupied with their own affairs to bother anyone. The only untoward incident I remember occurred in Ireland, when an inebriated fellow crossed my path. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me and pointed an accusatory, if unstable, finger in my direction.

“Der Antichrist!” he cried. “Der four fookin’ horsemen of the fookin’ apocalypse will be followin’ in yer wake!”

I was in no mood to humour his liquor-fuelled hallucinations.

“Stop that delirious babbling, you vulgar oaf!” I barked. “Have you any idea what a blot on the landscape you are on this beautiful morning? Find a quiet place to lie down and cover yourself with a tarpaulin.”

He stumbled away, mumbling some foolish nonsense. A drunken halfwit, to be sure, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a creep. I doubt he was a danger to anyone but himself.

Now the deputy mayor’s remark was in support of a proposal to close the city’s brothels between those hours. These establishments have become a major tourist attraction in Amsterdam, surpassing even the tulip fields and windmills. I actually think there is much to be said for the idea. Many prostitutes are obviously workaholics who should be forced to take a break for their own health and sanity. Even if they don’t feel like sleeping, it would do them good to consider new hobbies and pastimes. Consorting with lustful men can only go so far in broadening one’s mind.

A lot of respectable women, who find the idea of sleeping with strange men repulsive, assume that prostitutes must either be victims or incredibly greedy. I dare say many of them are, but there are also those who claim to enjoy their work. I remember getting an earful from a comely young harlot who caught my disapproving eye when she emerged from the trailer of a circus clown.

“I’m gorgeous, I love sex, so why shouldn’t I make money from it when I can?” she asked plaintively. “It’s the girls who give it away for nothing who are fools.”

“Well yes, I see you point,” I waffled sheepishly. “Yet it is also said that the best things in life are free, and that a bird in the hand is worth more than a bush, and that one man’s meat is another woman’s poison.”

“Bollocks!” she exclaimed, unconvinced by my subtle arguments.

Since then, I have been careful to avoid debates with either prostitutes or their detractors. Why should I even hold a view on the subject? The practice is beyond my power to reform and has a negligible impact on my life. Those who want to explore the issue in more depth should get in touch with my friend Miss Brooke, who seems to know all the in’s and out’s.

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