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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