Arrest of a faecal fiend

The Cornish Tourist Board are celebrating the capture of the cow manure pervert, apprehended in a field wearing nothing but a single sock as he wallowed in bovine excrement. It would be generous to interpret the sock as an ironic gesture, but a more likely explanation is that he forgot to pull it off in his haste to pull himself off. His conviction means that tourists pondering a visit to that scenic part of England will have one less reason to avoid it. I might even go there myself if I can find an interpreter to translate the incomprehensible dialect of the local yokels. 

Before he was sentenced, his defence lawyer tried to confuse the issue by claiming his client was “sad, socially inadequate and vulnerable”. That’s what they always say about dirty buggers who enjoy rolling in shit. Had it been a private fetish he might have deserved leniency, but the facts suggest that he wanted to be watched while he partied with the poo-poo. I agree with his lawyer that he didn’t deserve his two-year prison term, though. As there was clearly no hope of rehabilitation, he should have been banished to Greenland, where the only thing to wallow in is snow. The most effective deterrent to exhibitionism is a frost-bitten penis. 

I’ve never seen humans bathe in manure in the Congo. Even if some of them secretly want to, the locally available dung is too dry to use as a body lotion. In a climate where water is often scarce, animals can’t afford to go around dropping juicy turds for humans to rub themselves with. The nearest thing to the vice I’ve seen is the practice of anointing oneself with ostrich piss before making a voodoo fertility spell. Yet this ritual is only performed by fundamentalist witch doctors if you pay them handsomely. Most humans over here are too preoccupied with making a living to take up hobbies involving grossing each other out. 

I shouldn’t leave you with the impression that I’m a narrow-minded ape who will condemn any sort of unusual pastime as a perversion. In another recent case in England, a young Asian man was fined £50 for stealing a vibrator from an Ann Summers store. Only a bigot would describe this fellow as a sexual deviant, or make the unfair assumption that the item he stole was for personal use. It seems obvious to me that the lad was curious about vibrators but too embarrassed to pay for one at the counter. 

I can’t think of anything more natural and wholesome than being fascinated by vibrators. The amazing variety of colours, shapes and motions of these ingenious devices rivals that of the butterfly family. There is no excuse for stealing them, of course – I would have advised the young man to purchase one by mail order and start his own private collection. "Is that what you did yourself?" I hear you impertinently ask. Yes it was and what of it? I’m too big an ape to be shamed by your childish sniggers. 

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Doctor Booby

The manager of the safari camp tells me the name of the latest celebrity he wants to invite to the Congo for a free holiday. 

“Dr Ted Eisenberg!” he announces grandly. “He’s the plastic surgeon who holds the world record for the number of breast operations. Just think of all the positive publicity he’d get for us. We’d be the destination of choice for women with boob-jobs the world over!” 

“You don’t say?” I reply with a hint of scepticism. “How ill-informed I must be never to have heard of the fellow.” 

After later digging out some information about the doctor, my doubts begin to grow. It seems he has achieved his world record by specialising solely in bosom work. Call me a suspicious ape, but I find something rather obsessive about a man who operates on 3460 pairs of breasts to the exclusion of anything else. When variety is so evidently not the spice of life, one has to suspect a fetish. 

“I love the immediate gratification and happy reaction I get,” explained Dr Eisenberg. 

I bet he does – his words could be the mantra of tit-fiends throughout the ages. 

His bosom fixation is far from being the queerest of his peccadilloes. Apparently, the doctor is an avid amateur knife-thrower, believing his professional activities give him a special aptitude for the pursuit. 

“My work spills into my hobby and my hobby spills into my work,” he boasted. 

As a former circus ape who has hobnobbed with a number of virtuoso knife-throwers, I would venture to opine that the doctor is talking codswallop. There is a world of difference between hurling a projectile with pinpoint accuracy and reshaping a woman’s melons. Anyone who thinks that the skills are interchangeable is suffering from a bizarre delusion – the product, no doubt, of unbridled egomania in the doctor’s case. A man with that kind of overconfidence might be tempted into dangerous stunts on safari. It certainly wouldn’t help our cause if a world-famous cosmetic surgeon got his balls chewed off by a baboon. 

In truth, I don’t approve of giving free holidays to celebrity doctors of any ilk. Eisenberg must have earned ten thousand bucks for every rack he remodelled, making him a multimillionaire. The wealthy are conceited enough without buttering them up with undeserved baksheesh. 

I shall advise the manager to invite an up-and-coming entertainer instead, who might amuse the guests with unusual party tricks. The performer I have in mind is Francisco Domingo Joaquin, the man with the world’s widest mouth. His talent was recognised at an early age by his parents, who made him sleep with a saucer in his mouth to develop his potential. He can now insert a hot dog sideways, without bending or squashing it, and chomp it down in one mouthful. This feat is far more impressive than gobbling it down lengthways like a sword-swallower, which anyone can do with a bit of practice. There’s nothing like good family entertainment to win hearts and minds of the travelling public. 

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Circus of Horrors

I was very displeased to hear that a snooty Oxford college has banned The Circus of Horrors from its May Ball. Although I never appeared at such minor events in my own career, I resent this disdainful treatment of my fellow circus performers. Furthermore, I coached a few members of this company when they were struggling apprentices, it being my hairy paw that put them on the path to success. Those who insult the gorilla’s protégés insult the gorilla too. 

So what in the Circus of Horrors has upset the weak stomachs of the college authorities? One of the artistes, known as Captain Dan, is a dwarf who pulls household appliances with his private parts. Let me say at once that he is not one of those that I tutored. I never taught trainees to do anything with their todgers other than keep them in their pants. Dwarves being dwarves, however, they often took the expression of their creative impulses into their own hands. 

It’s worth pointing out that there is nothing particularly shocking about a dwarf’s genitals. They are no smaller, on average, than those of a normal-sized man. Yet this very quality makes them appear unnaturally large on their undersized bodies. Women are often caught out by this optical illusion and unduly flustered as a result. 

There was one very bad episode of gnome exposure in the circus I worked in. During a pay dispute with the management, the dwarves decided that withdrawing labour would be a less effective form of industrial action than flashing at female performers shortly before they appeared in the ring. They were right. The acrobat team had a particularly bad time of it, struggling to maintain their composure while executing their gymnastic feats. Those who think that performing artists should not be affected by such things should try it themselves before talking. Forming a human pyramid is no easy task with the image of a dwarf’s dangly bits burned into your mind. The management soon acceded to their pay demand. 

None of the above justifies barring Captain Dan from the Oxford ball. Although some female students might find his act disturbing, they will not be required to perform acrobatics shortly afterwards. If the sight becomes too much for them, they can scream and bury their faces as they might when watching a horror film. I doubt many of them would get a good view of the taut appendage in any case. A dwarf with a vacuum cleaner attached to his knob is only fully exposed when the eye line is perpendicular to the direction of motion. 

The Circus of Horrors should treat this snub with the defiance it deserves. I shall advise them to hold their own unofficial ball on the croquet lawn of a nearby stately home. This will upstage the staid college balls, bereft of penile-towing dwarves and other abominable freaks. As we say in the safari business, the squeamishness of the few should not preclude the titillation of the many.

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Mango sauce

Africa is full of the most wonderful natural medicines. Our mangoes contain a substance that keeps you trim by speeding up your metabolism, which is far healthier than taking diet pills that make you shit like a horse. It only works for women, though. Men who take it just want to have butt sex. 

I used to run a little jungle laboratory that extracted this compound from wild mangoes. It wasn’t for the local women, who get plenty of exercise and prefer being fleshy in any case. I sold it exclusively to the wives of western diplomats living in Brazzaville, never charging them more than I needed to cover my costs. The only profit I wanted was the knowledge that overweight white women were shedding surplus pounds and climbing trees in triumph. Call me sentimental, but that’s the kind of ape I am. 

I had to halt this charitable venture after an incident involving British ambassador’s wife, which alerted me to a side effect of the drug. This woman was an attractive former cocktail waitress who had acquired a few too many love-handles in early middle-age. On visiting my tribe in the jungle, she was naturally fascinated by our sleek, firm bodies, bounding energetically through the undergrowth. I agreed to see her at the official residence for further consultations. We took tea in the veranda after I arrived. 

“Maybe I’d get into shape if you gave me regular massages,” she suggested. 

“Ma’am, I fear that would merely move the surplus tissue from one area to another,” I replied. “What you must do is burn off the fat, and I have just the thing to stoke your fire.” 

So I gave her the mango extract, and a few months later all seemed fine and dandy – the woman was slimmer in the waist and tighter in the tenderloins. Then I got a summons from her husband, the ambassador. He didn’t waste time in small talk after I sat down in his office. 

“Bananas, you hairy rascal, what the devil have you been giving my wife?!” 

I resisted the urge to tweak his nose for that insult. A man whose wife has been taking medication from a gorilla is entitled to express himself forcefully. 

“Just a little something to energise her,” I replied. “I shouldn’t discuss my prescriptions with third parties.” 

“Third party, my arse!” he barked. “The woman is so insatiable that I have to sleep in the guest room! My balls are aching and she’s threatening to have an affair with the chauffeur!” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I won’t give her any more of the substance until we’ve looked into its aphrodisiac properties. In the meantime, I suggest give your chauffeur a month’s leave and order some sex toys.” 

Although I no longer produce the drug, others have exploited the gap in the market. It is now available in supermarkets without a doctor’s prescription. For fat women with low sex-drives it is nothing short of a miracle cure, but what about fat women with high sex-drives? Has no one considered the desperate lengths to which they might be driven? 

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The best medicine

 

A Russian doctor has opened a clinic specialising in laughter therapy. His theory is that regular chortling is an effective treatment for a multitude of maladies ranging from high blood pressure to cancer. I can verify from personal experience that it works for constipation. 

Although my current jungle diet makes my shit flow like a mudslide, I wasn’t able to follow it back in my circus days. I once got a concrete feeling in my colon after eating too many cream crackers, so I went to the bog and tried to empty my bowels by reading The Henry Root Letters. Believe me, there is nothing on Earth that feels like laughing out a turd – a mixture of agony, hilarity and relief in one big dump. My hooting and hollering caused people outside to wonder whether sadomasochist practices were going on. Fortunately they were too scared to intervene, which would have definitely resulted in an ugly incident. 

Of course this doesn’t mean the clinic is bound to be a success, because there’s a big difference between gorillas and Russians. Laughter is a habit we have acquired from a carefree jungle lifestyle involving dancing, swinging and the spanking of baboons. The Russians, by contrast, have had very few opportunities for mirth in their grim and tragic history, bedevilled with notorious despots such as Ivan the Terrible and Igor the Horrible. I seriously doubt whether many of them even enjoy laughing. 

When Solzenitsyn came to the West, the first thing he noticed was people smiling in the streets, which he found irksome. 

“Their gossip, nonsense and vain talk belie an emptiness of the soul,” he pompously declared. 

Silly old fart. Little did he realise, in his profound ignorance, that gossip, nonsense and vain talk have underpinned the greatest achievements of Western civilisation, including parliamentary democracy, the moon landings and talk radio. That’s what happens to a writer who shoots to fame as a chronicler of misery and oppression – he loses the ability to see past his nose. 

Maybe the new Russia is different, though. Communism has been dead for 20 years and Boris Yeltsin could certainly act like a buffoon, albeit not a particularly funny one. Vladimir Putin still has the old KGB poker face, but the younger generation have invented some clever practical jokes, such as the mail-order bride who steals money from desperate fat men. 

A very promising attempt at humour was recently made in St Petersburg by some up-and-coming artists, who drew a giant phallus on one of the city’s bridges. They called their creation “A Penis in KGB Captivity” to draw attention to heavy-handed police tactics during an international conference. There was talk of short-listing the graffiti for an art prize, but the authorities ordered the fire brigade to obliterate it with their hoses. They wouldn’t even let it stand proudly for the duration of the conference. 

My question for the Russians is this: If you can’t laugh at a big willy, what can you laugh at? 

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Belgian sex strike

I don’t normally pay much attention to human politicians, but occasionally one of them says something that makes me scratch my chin with my toenails. The latest to accomplish this feat was Senator Marleen Temmerman, a Belgian parliamentarian who has urged the wives of her male colleagues to deny them conjugal privileges until they approve a new government.

The first thing about her suggestion that surprised me was its implication that Belgian politicians sleep with their wives, rather than inflicting their sweaty flesh on call girls or rent boys. Yet another thing for Belgium to be proud of, along with Tin Tin, Poirot and Van Dammed. 

Having said all that, I don’t see the logic of her proposal. Why would an assembly of sexually frustrated men be any more likely to patch up their differences in the national interest? If you tried it with male chimpanzees, they would run around screeching their heads off before buggering each other senseless. 

One has to suspect that Ms Temmerman has an ulterior motive. It would be quite natural for a woman in a predominantly male institution to have yearnings and fantasies about some of her colleagues. If the men she fancied weren’t getting any back home, they might overlook the fact that she is no spring chicken and invite her to a clucking party with the rooster. How this would affect the political impasse is not entirely clear, but it’s possible that men who’ve enjoyed the same woman might adopt a common position. 

The problem with the idea of wives punishing their husbands by refusing them sex is the unspoken assumption that men always want it more than women. For teenagers and newlyweds this may well be true, but I question whether it applies to Mr and Mrs Fuddlebutt who’ve been married for 20 years. Middle-aged men fall into two categories – those who dream of food and those who dream of sex. The gluttons outnumber the lechers by at least two-to-one, and even the lechers would rather pester college girls than ravish the missus on the kitchen table. 

Last year, the bridal suite of the safari guesthouse was occupied by the Mellonbergs, an American socialite couple much feted in the high society of Rhode Island. A few days into their stay, Mrs Mellonberg approached me for a confidential chat: 

“All he does at night is lie on his back and snore like that hippo we saw in the swamp!” she exclaimed. “Could you put something in his coffee, GB? This is supposed to be our second honeymoon!” 

“Doping a man without his knowledge would violate our sacred code of jungle hospitality,” I replied. “I suggest you adopt the tactic of the female gorilla and take the initiative. A bit of groping might goad the old bull into action.” 

When the couple came down for breakfast next morning, I knew at once that Mrs Mellonberg had acted on my advice. There was a prodigious hickey on her husband’s face and triumphant smile on her one. The manager later said that she looked like a woman who had recently straddled a man and fucked his brains out. 

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The Great Condom Robbery

The Japanese are furious about the theft of a shipment of 700,000 condoms from Malaysia. Apparently, they were an extra thin variety, designed for heightened sensitivity in the oriental todger. I don’t blame them for being upset. You can’t deprive Japanese men of their battle helmets without causing them to howl savagely and unsheathe their ceremonial swords. The perpetrators, if caught, should be publicly sat on by sumo wrestlers until their flesh resembles sushi. You’ve got to make an example of such rogues to deter future outrages. 

I wonder what the thieves intend to do with the stolen merchandise. 700,000 seems too many for private use, even if the gang were all Brazilian. But attempting to sell them on the black market would play into the hands of undercover policemen, who spend entire careers waiting for such opportunities. They must have devised a clever use for them that no one has thought of before. Never underestimate the ingenuity of condom bandits. 

The silliest alternative use for condoms was suggested to me by a tourist from Birmingham, a city in England renowned for inhabitants who talk mildly amusing twaddle. He said they’d be a vital accessory in a naturist resort. 

“Let’s say I’m in a nudist colony,” he explained. “It’s only a matter of time before I see an attractive woman who gives me a stiffy, which would be pretty embarrassing when I‘m naked. Putting a rubber on it would protect me from staring eyes.” 

“It’s not exactly an effective disguise, though, is it?” I replied. “Everyone would know what was inside.” 

“That’s beside the point,” he insisted. “When a woman does aerobics you can see the shape of her body inside the leotard, but it’s not the same as watching her doing it with her tits hanging out.” 

“You have a very sharp mind,” I said, ignoring the obvious flaw in his argument. “I hope you’re putting it to good use in Birmingham.” 

I listened politely as he told me about his job as an electronic organ salesman. 

If you don’t want to use them as balloons or face masks, the next best thing to do with surplus condoms is recycle them. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said the rubber in them should be used to make the gloves women wear when washing dishes. (Men wash dishes too, but few of them are gay enough to wear gloves while doing it.) Rather than hiding their origin, he said they should be marketed as ‘made from recycled condoms’. 

“Do you really think that would be an attractive selling point?” I asked. 

“For most women, no,” replied Smacker. “But there’d definitely be a niche market among the sexually-liberated ball-breaker demographic. They’d buy the gloves just to differentiate themselves from prissy women who think it’s dirty to touch anything that’s been in contact with a man’s dick.” 

It’s a pity his idea wouldn’t work for the stolen Japanese condoms, which have never been in contact with a man’s dick. 

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