The new Miss USA

The manager of the safari camp is hoping that the news Miss USA will visit us.

“Just think of all the publicity we’d get,” he says. “We could film her eating a banana in the swimming pool.”

I scratch my neck pensively. To be honest, I’m not sure whether having her here will be good for our image. On the plus side, Miss Rima Fakih has a degree in economics, which will counter the erroneous belief that women who eat bananas in swimming pools are airheads. On the minus side, she is the winner of a pole dancing competition, which is not a pastime we would wish to encourage in the Congo. Behaviour of that sort distracts the men and confuses the baboons.

Another cause for concern is the cloud of controversy that engulfed this year’s Miss USA pageant. The muttering and harrumphing began when the contestants distributed revealing photos of themselves in seductive lingerie. Many fans protested that this betrayed the core values of the competition. I see their point. An event in which nubile young women wiggle their bottoms on stage should not be cheapened by the wanton flaunting of flesh. Anyone would think they were trying to influence the judges by making them horny.

I detect the sinister hairpiece of Donald Trump behind it all. He who pays the piper decides which pipe is blown. His response to the complaints was incredibly mealy-mouthed and evasive:

“I think the girls have gone maybe a little over the top this year,” he waffled.

Over the top of what? – the hedge outside his mansion? – the vaulting horse in his gymnasium? – the stuffed rhino in his bedroom? When a hard-headed entrepreneur starts using ambiguous language you can be sure that funny business is going on behind the scenes. Someone should shake Trump by the lapels until he confesses. Owning the store doesn’t entitle him to stick his hand in the candy jar whenever he wants.

Many people disapprove of beauty pageants on principle. I have a lot of sympathy for their position. What does the title of Miss USA really tell you about a woman? I’ve seen pictures of Miss Fakih and I’m damned if I can say what put her ahead of her rivals. Judging a woman as a package doesn’t make sense unless you’re going to marry her.

These competitions should be run like an athletics meeting, with specialist events for the diverse talents on display. Multiple queens could be crowned for excelling in different qualities – Miss Cutie for the prettiest face; Miss Chest for the perkiest boobs; Miss Buns for the nicest behind; Miss Hoochie for the girl most likely to sleep with Charlie Sheen. Picking out one contestant as the most beautiful is unfair to the others and too big a burden for the winner. Imagine having to act the like flower of your nation’s womanhood for a whole year, pouting for the cameras and holding in your farts. I certainly wouldn’t enjoy it.

I think I’ll send a telegram to Miss Fakih congratulating her on her coronation and advising her to behave with discretion. The title of Miss USA is regrettably a man-ho magnet, and I’d hate to think of some conceited dandy adding her to the notches on his bedpost. A woman who takes the name of her country must mercilessly shoot down intruders who enter her airspace.

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Violets are blue

Mel Gibson has vehemently denied bedding a Polish porn star called Violet Kowal. “It’s an absurd fabrication!” he yelled at a reporter who asked him whether he put on a Batman mask before mounting her. Violet has stuck to her story, taking a lie-detector test to prove she’s telling the truth.

“Mel is great in bed,” she said. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

You’ve got to admire a woman who speaks so generously of a man who has denounced her as a hoaxer. Mel should hang his head in shame for his ungallant behaviour. A gentleman would have accepted the compliment gracefully rather than issuing shrill denials. It’s not as if he had a reputation to protect.

Could he be worried that people will think Violet isn’t attractive enough for him? A-list actors are incredibly vain and hate to be seen chasing B-list totty. I showed her picture to the manager of the safari camp to find out what he thought. After ogling the photo from several different angles, he gave me his considered opinion.

“She’s not bad at all,” he said, “but you can’t tell everything from a picture. She may be one of those dishes that looks better on the plate than it tastes in the mouth.”

“Hmm,” I mused. “I suppose you could say that about any woman. But this is beside the point. If I were Mel’s pimp, I’d find him a woman nearer his own age – young enough to be his baby sister rather than his daughter. People respect a man who declines the spring chicken for the more mature fowl. It shows sophistication and discretion. And confidence in one’s plucking ability.”

The manager was horrified by my suggestion.

“You’re crazy, Bananas!” he exclaimed. “Women like that are called 'cougars'. They hang out in packs, comparing sex toys and hiring male strippers to molest. Videos of their antics are all over the internet. It’s terrifying!”

“Cougars, you say?” I replied. “Aren’t they just overgrown pussycats with sharper claws and bigger teeth? I will investigate before commenting on your allegations.”

After doing my own research, I discovered that these cougars are nothing like as frightful as the manager implied. In many ways they are a positive social force. The manufacturers of erotic lingerie are especially grateful to them for buying their wares during the economic downturn. As for their romps with male strippers, that’s just harmless, high-spirited fun. It’s obvious that the strippers are not really cringing with fear but enjoying every minute of it. Nor are the cougars treating them particularly roughly – female gorillas would be astonished at their moderation.

These vivacious ladies ought to have an annual convention to exchange ideas and make strategic decisions. I would certainly attend as a sympathetic observer, offering the gorilla perspective on cougarism, and filming some of the livelier seminars. It might end up as an award-winning documentary to rival the work of my friend Davy Attenborough. Any cougars who’d like to get involved should drop me a line tout de suite.

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Animal news

Austrian dairy farmers have forced their cows to participate in a beauty pageant. The contestants were examined in minute detail before a heifer called Wappiti was pronounced the winner.

“Her measurements are almost perfect and her udders are excellent!" drooled Rudolf Hussel, the head judge.

I bet that dirty old man couldn’t wait to get his hands on her teats. The whole event seems terribly sexist to me. A cow is more than a shapely rump and a juicy set of udders. She has hopes and dreams beyond satisfying the babyish human fetish for drinking milk. Allowing her assets to be ogled by a bunch of hayseeds is degrading in the extreme. If I were a bull, I’d take the first flight to Austria and give those degenerate farmers a taste of my horn. Then I would lead the liberated cows into green pastures before mounting them one by one.

Rescuing females from unjust oppression is a noble pursuit for the male of the species, particularly if the rescued females then give their gallant hero unlimited poontang for his pains. The cleverest men in history were the fellows who supported the suffragettes by getting into punch-ups on their behalf. A few cuts and bruises were a price well worth paying to be fussed over tenderly by those passionate young ladies. I’m sure the feminist movement would achieve all its aims if it solicited the support of more vigorous young men. Sometimes the best way of realising your dreams is to get into bed with your supposed enemies.

Sadly, it’s not just Austrian peasants who are treating animals disrespectfully. A BBC film crew deliberately goaded a swan into a violent tantrum for their TV show. They did this by bribing canoeists to invade the swan’s territory and poke its tail. The hapless creature tried to swim away at first, but after being goosed up the river for 200 yards it turned on its tormentors and snapped at them viciously.

The RSPCA have spoken up for the swan, rightly condemning the BBC as shameless bird molesters. If only they knew that similar chicanery occurs in wildlife documentaries. Have you ever wondered why so many nature films shot in Africa include footage of chimpanzees going berserk? Chimps are excitable apes, but they don’t run around screeching without good cause.

Davy Attenborough was very evasive about this when I asked him what was going on. Eventually he confessed under my relentless cross-examination.

“We usually prepare for the shoot by scattering photos of trussed-up hairy men being whipped by a dominatrix,” he said. “This puts the chimps on edge. Then we get the dominatrix to appear in person, riding through the chimp colony on horseback while cracking her whip. The chimps become hysterical, which is when we start filming. I’m not proud of it, GB, but we don’t have the budget to hang around for months until something natural agitates them.”

“You’re a very naughty boy, Davy,” I declared sternly. “You must atone for your roguish deception by letting my females play with you.”

Davy gulped and hung his head, but I assured him he had nothing to fear. My females always go easy on famous naturalists.

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Brainy Spice?

My eyes lit up when a man on safari described Victoria Spice as an “airhead”. Having just read a fascinating article about her lineage, I was well-placed to refute his ignoble assertion.

“I think not, my good man!” I declared. “A genealogist has discovered that her great-great-great grandfather was a radical artist who hung out with Karl Marx. Whatever you think of Marx, he didn’t waste time hobnobbing with airheads.”

“What does that prove?” retorted the man. “The total number of great-great-great grandparents is 32. Her other 31 must have been straw-chewing yokels and buxom wenches. Any brain-juice from Marx’s pal would have been diluted with a gallon of doofus syrup.”

“What shocking bigotry!” I protested. “Are buxom wenches necessarily dim-bulbs?”

“Name one that isn’t,” he challenged.

”Kate Winslet,” I replied instantly.

“Decent pair of jugs but no Einstein,” he remarked coarsely.

I parted company with the fellow, shaking my head and tut-tutting. Had I wished to continue the debate, I would have pointed out that buxom wenches were not likely in Victoria’s family tree, given that her own figure is somewhere between slender and cadaverous.

Human genealogy is a fascinating subject though. The further you go back in time, the more likely it is you’ll find some phenomenal breeder with millions of modern-day descendants. Half the human race has either King Solomon or Genghis Khan as an ancestor. The lucky ones are related to both. If you see an angry fellow who likes horses, swords and concubines, you know where he gets it from.

Geneticists have proved that the entire human species is descended from a woman who lived in Africa about 200,000 years ago. This mysterious über-mother, whom scientists have named Eve, eclipsed all her rivals in the mating and child-rearing stakes. What was so special about her? The scientists have no idea and assume she just got lucky – maybe she was having a dirty weekend on Mount Kilimanjaro when a massive tsunami struck.

Another possibility is that Eve had some kind of biological advantage. The manager of the safari camp is convinced that her breasts were exceptionally large. As well as providing a plentiful supply of milk for her considerable brood, they would have made her irresistible to potential suitors. The men of that epoch were not very subtle and tended to focus entirely on a woman’s jahoobies. It wasn’t until the great cultural awakening of the Cro-Magnon period that more diverse tastes developed and men began to notice a lady’s thighs and buttocks.

Yet such theories have little relevance to Victoria Spice, who was not put on Earth to be gawked at for her fleshy adornments. I remain convinced that the woman has hidden intellectual depths, invisible to the naked eye, but perceptible to the de-waxed ear. No wonder the odious Simon Cowell has refused to employ her as a judge on his tawdry talent show. He is just the sort of the conceited TV pundit that Victoria would upstage with her shrewd little comments.

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Indonesian police ban

Indonesia’s chief of police has banned men with artificially enlarged penises from the force. A wise policy in my view. Victims of crime are already in a state of shock and don’t need a visit from Officer Cobra Pants. It's not easy to describe an offender’s features to someone with a zucchini in his trousers. It might be a different story if policemen wore kilts, but that would open up another can of worms. A law enforcer who can’t kick a suspect’s behind without exposing himself is fatally flawed as a crime fighter.

The one exception I’d make is for officers working in the Vice Squad. It’s common knowledge that well-endowed policemen get more respect from prostitutes and pimps. They’re harder to bribe for one thing. A working girl would think twice about offering a freebie to a man whose appendage might damage the source of her income. I don’t know which squad was involved in the recent round-up of beach gigolos in Bali, but I hope they measured up to the task. You don’t want policemen getting an inferiority complex from manhandling gigolos.

Are the Indonesian police yearning for greater groin mass to compensate for another inadequacy? Perhaps their standard issue handgun is one of those puny little pistols used by gamblers in the Old West to threaten a rival under the table. A cop won’t feel secure in his virility unless you equip him with a piece like the 44-Magnum. I bet Dirty Harry never gave a second thought to the size of his dick when he was blowing away all the punks and psychos who crossed his path.

When I was in the circus we never called the police, preferring in-house solutions to our security problems. The midgets looked out for pickpockets and bottom-pinchers in the crowds that assembled before the show, keeping me informed by walkie-talkie. If they reported any funny business, I swung over on a guy rope and apprehended the suspect with the long arm of the gorilla. Very little violence was required. To the pickpockets, I simply said:

“You’ve got a choice: you can give what you stole to me, or you can give it to the lions.”

They always gave it to me.

A different approach was required for the bottom pinchers. I gave them a speech along the following lines:

“A pox on your groping fingers, you saucy knave! Apologize for your indecent act or I’ll rip off your pants and expose your grubby gonads to the world! And be sure to repent with downcast eyes or I’ll give your nose a tweak you’ll feel until the next solar eclipse!”

The recipients of the pinch were generally satisfied with the apology, often adding their own acerbic remarks to compound the miscreant’s humiliation. In a few cases, it must be said, the victim behaved in a manner that suggested she had mixed feeling about her experience. One particularly buxom lady even asked her assailant for a date. He didn’t dare refuse under the menace of my stern gaze.

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The scent of a human

I’m thinking of sending a condolence note to a shop worker in America who got punched in the face for telling a customer he smelt awful. I know from experience how sensitive humans can be about the odours they exude. Back in my circus days, I happened to catch a whiff of the female acrobats after a particularly strenuous practice session.

“Good heavens, ladies!” I exclaimed. “I could track you at 50 yards like a hyena! It’s a good thing no male baboons are in the vicinity!”

I meant no offence by these remarks, but the girls took umbrage, assailing me with bitter rebukes and rude gestures. I later made up with them by professing admiration for their wholesome emanations.

“Any red-blooded man who sniffed your womanly scents would go crazy with lust,” I said tactfully.

They pooh-poohed my flattery, but were pleased to hear it nonetheless.

I am fortunate that my own smell is extremely congenial to the human nose. We of the House of Bananas are blessed with a rich, woody bouquet, redolent of forests of teak and mahogany after a tropical downpour. This was the first thing Lady Chuffington noticed on meeting me after a circus performance.

“I say, Bananas, that’s a damned intoxicating aftershave you’re wearing,” she remarked. “What is it?”

“Milady, you are mistaken,” I replied. “I do not apply perfumes to any part of my body, which as you can see is unshaven from head to toe. The fragrance you are inhaling is pure essence of gorilla.”

“How extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “I’m tempted to ask you to lie on the couches in my home to freshen them up. Your belly would make an excellent cushion if we could get it in the right position.”

“You are too generous, milady,” I replied. “Much as I would enjoy assuming any position you suggested, my busy schedule would not permit such luxurious indolence.”

Now the crux of the human body odour problem is perspiration. Homo sapiens is by far the sweatiest of the primates, its abundant pores being used to discharge a variety of malodorous toxins. It follows that women who habitually anoint themselves with antiperspirants and deodorants are bottling up noxious substances that their body needs to expel. This might cause them to behave like the venomous tarantula, biting and stinging at the slightest provocation.

My advice to women who use such toiletries is to have a weekly sauna to sweat out the poisons that would otherwise aggravate their distemper. That’s what the women of Sweden do, and they are famously easy-going and laconic. A side-effect of their sauna habit is that an unusually high proportion of them have bisexual fantasies, presumably about the women they see naked in the steam cabin. Is that a bad thing, though? I’d wager any husband striving to pleasure his wife would rather she were thinking of a woman than another man.

Actually I’m not so sure about this, I throw it open for debate.

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