Dental gas

 

I received the following email yesterday: 

Dear Mr Bananas 

I am a partner at the London law firm of A*** & H***, writing on behalf our client, a Mr Matthew Walton. He is a dentist whose career is in jeopardy because of allegations that he maliciously broke wind while treating his patients. 

As a member of a species renowned for its flatulence, I trust you would have sympathy for one who faces ruin simply for performing this natural bodily function. In your wide experience of the activity, you must be intimately aware of its importance to good health and a comfortable bowel. 

We should therefore be most grateful if you would agree to testify as an expert witness in the hearing of the General Dental Council in London. We would, of course, pay your travel and accommodation costs. 

Yours sincerely 

Herbert C*** 

I initially thought this message was a practical joke. Many humans are familiar with the side effects of our healthy vegetarian diet, and quite a few of them enjoy drawing attention to this proclivity in a spirit of humorous banter. Teasing a gorilla by sending him hoax emails is much easier than cheeking him to his face, which most wags find intimidating. This is actually a pity, because we gorillas are quite able to appreciate a joke at our own expense. I would never hang a man upside down by his ankles merely for giving me a good-natured ribbing. 

However, as the message contained the name of lawyer’s purported client, I decided to check its veracity by means of a google search. To my great surprise, I discovered a news report which corroborated the story, although the lawyer had obviously omitted various details unfavourable to his client. 

The evidence suggests that this Matthew Walton farted wantonly in the presence of both patients and colleagues, and was greatly entertained by their disgust at the foul smells he produced. Their complaints merely added to his amusement. 

“He found it funny,” said a nurse at the dental clinic. “If I spoke to him about it, he laughed and did it more.” 

In no way is his behaviour comparable with that of us gorillas, who fart considerately in the open air, and direct our discharges so as to minimise the risk of passive fart inhalation by innocent bystanders (a category which excludes baboons and snakes, who are never innocent). With such issues in mind, I sent the following reply to the presumptuous lawyer: 

Dear Mr C*** 

You are wrong to assume that I would have sympathy for your client. When we gorillas break wind, our gases are quickly diffused in the atmosphere and cause minimal aggravation to our fellow creatures. The practice of letting off in an enclosed space is wholly abhorrent to us. When I am inside a building, I do whatever I can to avoid such a calamity, including opening a window and positioning my backside to face outwards. Your client is obviously a reckless polluter who has no concern for the harm done by his obnoxious emissions. I must therefore decline your request. 

Yours etc 

G Bananas 

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Holy Land Hooters

I overheard the manager of the safari camp telling his wife that he’d be making a business trip to Israel. 

“It’s the perfect country to market safari holidays,” he said. “All those arid deserts full of locusts and wild honey. The people there must be dying to visit a place teaming with wild animals and lush vegetation.” 

I knew at once that this was dung from the hippo’s rectum – a shower of manure to cover his tracks and delude his spouse. Being an ape who likes to get to the bottom of things, I resolved to determine the real reason for the trip. So I sneaked into the manager’s office and perused the recently viewed websites on his computer. It didn’t take me long to discover what was pulling him towards the holy land like a moth to a lamp. I found a news report about a men-only hairdressing salon in Tel-Aviv, where the cropping is done by women who wear nothing but thongs. 

One might laugh at the idea that a man would travel thousands of miles to see bare-breasted women, but don’t underestimate the novelty appeal of a topless barber-girl, whose gently-swaying globes brush against her customers as she carefully snips their locks. The enticement of such prolonged proximity to a fresh pair of jahoobies might be difficult for a tit-obsessed man to resist. 

It does surprise me, however, that the most vocal opponents of the Red Puma salon seem to be Israeli feminists. They have every right to disapprove, of course, but I would have expected the most vehement strictures to come from the ultra-orthodox rabbis. Shouldn’t they be invoking ancient Hebrew curses against this abomination? Or are they too busy queuing up to have their beards trimmed? Perhaps a scholar of Jewish law might enlighten us. 

Anyway, I agree with the feminists that the concept behind this salon is horribly sexist. Men who want to be groomed by naked women should get the ball rolling by stripping off themselves. Equality means reciprocity, and a man has no right to ogle a woman’s cupcakes unless he gives her a fair opportunity to examine his dangly bits. 

Now some of you might be thinking that I ought to get a haircut myself before pontificating about barber shops. Your premise would be wrong, because I used to have my fur trimmed in the circus. One of the female acrobats would kindly visit my trailer in the summer months to prune my coat with great delicacy. She once made an unusual request: 

“Do you mind if I take my clothes off, GB, it’s boiling in here. I don’t mind you seeing me naked because being a gorilla you’d look at my body with a doctor’s eyes.” 

I responded to her wish with great sympathy: 

“I quite understand your desire to snip me in the buff, and you are absolutely correct about my clinical detachment. But there is no blind on my window, and a pair of straying eyes might injure your modesty, to say nothing of our reputations.” 

After further negotiation, I agreed to let her strip down to her underwear. We gorillas are generous apes who will compromise on most issues for the comfort of our friends.

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Bottom fiend?

It brings a smile to my face when I hear of a woman with the tactile inclinations of a female gorilla. The latest addition to this redoubtable sorority is Bianca Revrenna, a 68-year-old “shop girl” with a penchant for slapping the buttocks of her male co-workers.

“I do that to all the boys,” she explained to a younger colleague who had the nerve to protest about a friendly smack of his undeserving rump. 

He then complained to his boss, who wisely told him to be grateful that he possessed a posterior capable of provoking such appreciation. After further bellyaching and whining, he managed to extract an apology from Ms Revrenna; but this wasn’t enough to dissuade him from quitting his job and suing his former employer for “sexual discrimination”. 

The case should be dismissed on the grounds that the plaintiff is a spoilsport and a sissy. Why couldn’t he let the old girl have her fun? If he felt his dignity had been compromised, he could have whacked her wobbly arse in return. That’s what a man with meatballs in his nutsack would have done. As any freshman law student knows, he who is groped by a woman has carte blanche to grope her back. 

When I was in the circus, I remember a clown telling me that he’d been molested by the big cat trainer, a fine lusty woman who had worked as a lifeguard before joining the circus. He alleged that she had sat on his face when he was relaxing after a show. 

“Why don’t you retaliate in kind instead of telling tales?” I said. “She won’t respect you until you do. Don’t forget she’s used to dealing with big pussies.” 

So the clown stalked her discreetly for the next few days, and eventually caught her off guard when she was bending over to pick up her lucky alligator’s tooth. He promptly buried his nose between her arse cheeks, causing her to squawk like a parrot and belly-dive onto the ground. Honour was satisfied and they became the best of friends. 

Different rules apply to inter-species fraternisation, of course. No woman has ever dared to touch my posterior without my prior consent. Maybe some were tempted, but there’s something about a gorilla’s hairy rump that intimidates the bravest of humans. Had the big cat trainer ever tried it on with me, I would have applied my weight to a fleshy part of her body until she agreed to write me an apology note. I’ve learned enough about humans to know that talk is cheap – you can’t hold them to anything unless you’ve got it in writing. 

Humans who want to pet their primate cousins should try their luck with orang-utans rather than gorillas or chimps. Scientists have discovered that they and humans share genetic traits which other primates don’t have. Presumably these include red hair and sexual perversion. Do you remember Clyde, the man-friendly orang-utan who starred alongside Clint Eastwood in Every Which Way But Loose? That saucy ape was always sticking his paw in places it didn’t belong. And he lived with Clint’s mother too. There is no way an orang-utan would shack up with an elderly woman unless something devilishly kinky was going on. 

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A vulgar performance?

You know what the problem with the human race is? Bad blood caused by cultural misunderstandings. Take the case of Ms Anna Faris, the pretty blond actress who went to New Zealand to star in a biopic about Yogi Bear. During her stay in that serene sheep-sanctuary in the South Pacific, she saw some local men making suggestive body movements, which she interpreted as an invitation to play ewes and rams. Offended by their bawdy presumption, she made a public statement to the effect that Kiwi men were vulgar louts. 

Stung by her harsh words, the New Zealand Tourist Board felt obliged to defend the integrity of its menfolk, denouncing Ms Faris as an “incredible stoned bimbo”. This led to a cycle of recriminations and counter-recriminations in which a large number of stoned bimbos, both credible and incredible, cancelled their holidays to New Zealand. 

The sad thing about this affair is that the men Ms Faris encountered were not making indecent suggestions to her. What they were doing was the haka, a Maori war dance partaken by Kiwi men of all races, involving an extravagant display of arm-bending, groin-cupping and tongue-wiggling manoeuvres. Admittedly, in most human societies this would signify massive sexual incontinence and the propensity to hump anything with a pair of hind legs; but in Polynesian culture, it is merely a way of showing respect to your rivals before clubbing them senseless. Not so different, in fact, from the chest-thumping we gorillas do before having a friendly sumo bout. 

The New Zealand Tourist Board has quite rightly apologised to Ms Faris. Anyone who works in tourism knows that you never retaliate when visitors make a fuss. If a tourist insults us in the Congo, we turn the other arse-cheek. 

A couple of years ago, we responded sensitively to the complaints of a Welshman whose foot had been bitten off by a crocodile. It was entirely his own fault, of course, but we nevertheless made arrangements for his wound to be treated. I even listened sympathetically to his whining as he lay in a hospital bed. 

“What kind of tourist resort allows crocodiles to prowl about in rivers and snap the feet off guests who happen to be using the facilities?” he asked in an aggrieved tone of voice. “I'm not happy about this, Bananas, it's ruined my ruddy holiday, make no mistake!”. 

“You have every right to be disappointed, Mr Fiddler,” I replied soothingly. “Before you leave, we would like to offer you a complimentary tin of crocodile meat so your worthy foot may be avenged. They say it tastes like ostrich.” 

This gesture of goodwill mollified the Welshman to such a degree that he kept in touch with us after returning to Pontypridd. Here is an excerpt from a recent email of his: 

“…It's not too bad, really, my prosthetic foot is made of fibreglass and can kick a rugby ball 100 yards. They call me Footless Fiddler at my local but you get used to the banter. I screw it off before going to bed...” 

Does that sound like a satisfied customer to you? 

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Carla and the mullahs

I wonder if the Iranian regime regrets calling Carla Bruni a prostitute. I doubt it upset her very much. France is one of those great nations where being a courtesan does not prevent a woman from becoming a national icon. The beautiful Madame de Pompadour serviced King Louis XV with great distinction until her untimely death at the age of 42. She was given a state funeral and her mourners included Voltaire, who bemoaned the fact that her life had been cut short when so many decrepit old farts were still living. I remember saying something similar when Princess Diana died, although grief may have disordered my wits. 

Perhaps Carla should have responded to the Iranians as follows:

“I am a prostitute who chooses her own clients and sets her own fees. For some men I charge a palace in the sky; for others just a wink of the eye.”

It’s the kind of stylish remark the French love to hear from their public figures. I bet it would have dumbfounded her detractors in the Bearded Republic, who also alleged that Carla’s husband would be happy if she died, an insult which deserves high marks for ingenuity and low marks for plausibility. It is possible, of course, that Sarko mumbled something to that effect in his sleep, but how would the Iranians know? They certainly aren’t savvy enough to plant a bugging device in his bedroom. 

The only vulnerable point in Sarko’s palace security is the midgets he has hired as his bodyguards. The problem with midgets is that: (a) they are very easy to bribe, and (b) they are small enough to hide under a bed. The Iranian regime might well have recruited one of them as an informant by offering him a regular supply of pistachio nuts, a snack which they possess in ample supply. If so, Sarko’s fear of being dwarfed in public may have exposed his darkest secrets to the Big Turbans in Teheran. Vanity is downfall of all great Frenchmen. 

As a former circus ape, I have fielded my fair share of insults from humans resentful of my fame and rugged good looks. A fat-bellied oaf once called me “a big hairy cunt” when I was having an evening stroll after a show in Chelmsford. As there were no women or children in the vicinity to overhear his coarse remark, I decided to treat him leniently. 

“There is no such thing as a hairy cunt, you fat-bellied oaf,” I said. “The hair which decorates the female pudenda is always located on the perimeter of the sexual organ rather than actually on it. This is true for female gorillas as well as women.” 

His only retort to my anatomical treatise was to make a noise like a braying jackass. I decided to let this utterance pass without comment. A dignified silence is usually appropriate when an effective riposte has already been delivered. So, after turning my back on the fat-bellied oaf, I ambled away leisurely while thrusting my rump from side to side.

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An inside job

The British police are embroiled in yet another scandal. The aggrieved party, on this occasion, consists of women who have been seduced by undercover police officers. Apparently, it is standard operating procedure for detectives who have infiltrated radical protest groups to boink the female activists. It’s seen as the most effective method of proving loyalty to the cause, given that a man who's genuinely feeling righteous passion can never stop it seeping to the loins. 

The scandal erupted when the victims of this undercover hanky-panky realised they’d been duped into sleeping with the enemy. A woman who believes she is treading in the footsteps of Joan of Arc doesn’t appreciate being made to look like a stupid trollop. Being ravished by a reactionary foot soldier of the system is bound to make her feel dirty, no matter how good his deodorant was. 

Having been so fiendishly despoiled, the women are refusing to take it lying down. They’ve formed a new protest group which has picketed Scotland Yard, displaying banners with hard-hitting messages such as “Keep your truncheon in your trousers!” and “You told me the handcuffs were kinky!”. The aim of this agitation is to persuade a high court judge to review the insidious tactics of the police and give them a firm dressing down. 

It would be all too easy to dismiss these women as silly floozies who would drop their knickers for any cross-eyed fellow who mouthed a few appealing political slogans. In reality, the officers selected for this work were hand-picked for their pretty-boy looks and smooth-talking charm. There’s only so much cake and honey a woman can eat before she allows her benefactor to raid her larder. 

Back in my circus days, I comforted several female performers who had been tricked into bed by men who pretended to share their hobbies. 

“Oh, GB!” cried a tearful trainee acrobat. “The troll collection he showed me didn’t even belong to him! He borrowed it from one of the clowns!” 

“There, there,” I replied sympathetically. “I’m sure many girls before you have been deceived by men who masqueraded as collectors of trolls or other cuddly trinkets. Just remember not to be so trusting in future. Any man who claims to own miniature dolls must be interrogated thoroughly until he can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.” 

As for the undercover officers, they could make amends for their caddish behaviour by leaving the police force and offering to help the groups they spied on. I believe one of these men has already contacted the women he hoodwinked to express contrition and profess a sincere change of heart. 

“I used to be a tool of the establishment,” he wrote to one of his victims, “but after nuzzling your delicious boobies I saw the error of my ways. I am now ready to fight for the cause and bear upon your boobies like a comrade honest and true.” 

If that doesn’t earn him forgiveness, nothing will.

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