Lunar weight loss

The moon is shrinking. That’s what the eggheads at NASA are saying, and who are we to doubt them? So if you’re planning to build a holiday home there, you’d better buy a plot of land before prices go through the roof. 

When important news like this breaks, one should pass it on. 

“The moon is getting smaller,” I said to the manager of the safari camp. 

“Yeah, but Uranus is getting bigger!” he retorted. 

I patted him on the head as he sniggered delightedly at his own wit. 

“Your mastery of scatological puns makes my sphincter dilate in awe,” I said. “But have you no interest in the fate of our heavenly neighbour, whose ethereal light bathes the African night in silvery splendour?” 

“No!” he replied stubbornly. “The lanterns in the garden give us all the light we need and they don’t churn up the sea with stupid fucking tides. The moon can kiss my behind!” 

I saw no point in pressing the matter with a man whose soul was so utterly devoid of poetry. I suspect he secretly fears the moon as the malevolent force behind werewolves and other apocryphal demons. Humans can be very superstitious. 

The next person I passed the news to was a middle-aged American woman of impressive girth, who had just arrived at the safari guesthouse. 

“No kidding?” she said. “I wish I could make my butt shrink as well.” 

I could not let this unworthy sentiment pass without comment. 

“Unlike a lump of rock, Madam, your posterior has important biological functions, such as bearing the not inconsiderable weight it is attached to. It has every right to expand to whatever size is required to perform the task.” 

“You don’t say?” she remarked. “That’s the first time I heard anyone speak in defence of my tush. What are you, the UN protector of asses’ rights?” 

“No, but I’d accept the job if they offered it to me,” I said. “I like to stick up for the unappreciated organ.” 

“Oh I appreciate it just fine, I just wish it wasn’t so big. Diets don’t seem to work so I’m thinking of getting it surgically reduced.” 

To say I was flabbergasted by this statement would belittle the extent of my consternation. 

“You cannot be serious, Madam!” I exclaimed with far more gravitas than John McEnroe. “Are you aware that deflating a beach ball merely produces a flabbier version of the same thing? Women who have undergone this perverse procedure must bitterly regret the shrivelled old pumpkin they got lumbered with. A fat, juicy peach is better than a prune.” 

“Hmm,” she mused. “I’m not convinced but thanks for your input. I’ll mention your concerns to my doctor.” 

I hope my cautionary words will be enough to dissuade her. Let me add that I make no judgments about women who undergo cosmetic surgery on their faces, boobs, or even their cha-chas. Sometimes a woman has to do what a woman has to do. But the rump should never be messed with. Some things are sacred to a gorilla.

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