Disturbing news of a punch-up in a church in Spain, which began when a member of the congregation spat out a wafer the priest had put in his mouth. No one likes to see their cooking insulted in that way, so Father Victor Jimeno might be forgiven for departing from Christian norms and giving the ungrateful wretch a slap on his insolent face. Mayhem then ensued, with blows being exchanged in pews and arses being kicked on the altar.
In spite of following the strict dietary laws of my race, I have never had occasion to spit out food given to me by humans. If you don’t like what’s on the menu don’t order it – or, if possible, get the menu changed.
A few years ago I paid a surprise visit to my friend Ernesto Bongodrum, who owns a farm in Kenya. The Bongodrums have been in my debt ever since I rescued their virgin daughter from the clutches of a predatory movie producer and found her a position in a respectable circus. Yes, there are respectable circuses if you know where to find them, and she didn’t surrender her virtue until she was a fully-trained acrobat, which is as much as any parents could hope for their daughter.
Ernesto was appropriately overcome with joy when he saw me hiking through the fields to the salutations of his smiling farmhands.
“Gorilla Bananas, our dear friend and benefactor!” he exclaimed. “Tonight we shall have a feast in your honour! I shall tell Dolores to light the oven while I slaughter the fatted calf!”
Touched as I was by this effusion of honest veneration, I could not allow him to butcher a calf on my behalf, which would have violated the sacred edicts of Old Melonhead the Wise. So I tactfully proposed an alternative:
“Ernesto, my dear fellow, your hospitality would put the Raja of Mehmoodabad to shame. Rather than slaughtering the fatted calf, please indulge my fancy by milking the fatted cow instead. I have a bunch of overripe bananas in my knapsack and presently crave to toast our friendship with a sweet and frothy milkshake.”
Ernesto did as I bade, giving the udders of his favourite ungulate a good pumping while I sat in the lounge, entertaining Dolores with bawdy anecdotes from my circus days.
I wish I could say that all great apes were as careful about their diet as we gorillas. I was shocked to hear news of a captive orang-utan called Oshine, who was fed junk food by irresponsible humans until she ballooned into a hairy version of Jabba the Hut.
There’s not much future for a fat female orang-utan. Unlike the human species, there are no kinky males with a blubber fetish. I don’t envy her new owners in Dorset, who hope to restore her to a normal weight by putting her on a diet. A spoiled orang-utan used to eating sweets and desserts isn’t going to look kindly upon humans who present her with plates of carrots and broccoli. Vegetables will fly through the air before this portly princess is in serviceable condition.
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