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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