Powerful women

 

A study has revealed that powerful women are just as likely to cheat on their spouses as their male counterparts. Someone should tell Angela Merkel. She’s been chancellor of Germany for over five years and still hasn’t put out. Could she be a dark horse who’s been quietly playing the field? I doubt it. A woman who’s getting laid frequently doesn’t look as tense and uneasy as Frau Merkel. The only kind of horse she is is a riderless one. 

When I mentioned this disappointing lack of Merkelian action to the manager of the safari camp, he grinned with a knowing look in his eyes. 

“She’s obviously not used to making the first move,” he said. “If I were one of Merkel’s aides, I would pay some young Wolfgang to bang her and let her take it from there. It only takes one polar bear to make a hole in the ice.” 

Beneath the vulgar language, I detected a valid point. It’s quite likely that successful women are too intimidating for men to proposition, so they have to do the chasing themselves. Such forward behaviour may not be in Frau Merkel’s repertoire of political skills. I’m tempted to invite her to the Congo for some tuition from my females, who have never been shy of grabbing what they want with both hands. My only worry is that the aromas and rhythms of the jungle might turn her into a sex maniac before she’d returned to human civilisation. A randy woman in a community of apes might provoke gross and unnatural acts. 

A powerful woman who shouldn’t need any assistance from her hairy cousins is Julia Gillard, the prime minister of Australia. The first thing to note about her is her flame red hair – clear evidence of the orang-utan gene, which implies a high sex drive. I don’t know anything about her private life, but I’d bet you a hundred coconuts that she’s a tiger in the sack. Living in Australia should also help her extramarital ambitions. The country is full of larrikin men who wouldn’t think twice about cornering Ms Gillard in an official function and offering her the use of their didgeridoo. It’s true that her voice isn’t very sexy – she sounds like a frigid schoolmistress, in fact – but that may be part of her political act. There’s no point giving the leader of the opposition an erection when debating changes to the superannuation laws. 

I’ve deliberately left Mrs Clinton until last. She’s obviously entitled to cheat on her husband, given the brazen debauchery that he has got away with in his long and distinguished career. My suspicion is that she’s one of those women who is only interested in very clever men, which narrows the pool considerably. She needs to go somewhere with a high egghead density to improve the odds of finding a suitable paramour. 

Perhaps I'll contact the Oxford Union to suggest they debate the motion “This house believes that Osama had bigger balls than Obama”. Honour would demand that Hilldog accepted an invitation to participate, obviously speaking against motion. Although most of the boffins in Oxford are untouchable with a barge pole, there’s always the chance that she’ll bump into a smooth-talking hustler like my friend Dicky Dawkins, who could teach her a thing or two about genetic recombination. It’s a match made in heaven. 

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A treat for film buffs?

The manager of the safari camp is thrilled at the news that Jennifer Aniston will appear topless in her next movie. 

“She wouldn’t be doing it unless her melons were in great shape!” he exclaimed. “I bet they’re ripe and ready for plucking!” 

“That would be quite an achievement for a 42-year-old woman,” I remarked. “Could they really be so different from the many melons you’ve ogled on the internet?” 

“That’s not the point!” he insisted. “You never forget a famous pair of titties. I can still picture Jamie-Lee Curtis pulling off her sweater in that movie where she pulled off her sweater.” 

“Miss Curtis would surely be delighted that her acting made such an impression on you,” I replied sardonically. “It’s a pity there isn’t a titty Oscar.” 

“Damn right!” agreed the manager. “They’d have to share it, though. You couldn’t give it to one boob and make the other one jealous.” 

“Why not give each boob its own one?” I suggested. 

“That’s just crazy talk!” he sneered. “They obviously work as a team.” 

I told the manager he had no equal in the etiquette of bosom appreciation and left him to his daydreams. 

I wonder what prompted Miss Aniston to let her puppies pose for the camera. Could she be worried that her image is too goody-goody, like Julie Andrews? On the whole, I think it’s a sign of desperation when a famous actress bares her breasts in anything other than a French film. The French, being French, know how to integrate the female bosom with dialogue and plot in an entirely naturalistic way – you never feel like a peeping tom when a pert pair of dumplings appears in their movies. In a Hollywood flick, by contrast, the boob shot is obviously a scrap of meat thrown to the hounds. 

I will now make a controversial statement that most men will find ludicrous to the point of absurdity: there are more interesting things on a woman than her breasts. I’m thinking particularly of her nose. Smalls ones are supposed to be cute and feminine, yet long pointy ones are far more intriguing. Miss Aniston should reflect on the fact that Meryl Streep has never once exposed her bust in a movie. People are too interested in her face to wonder what her jahoobies look like. 

I am glad to note that some humans share my peculiar fascination. The organisers of the Long Nose World Championship, to be held next month in Germany, are still looking for promising candidates to compete in their “snoot out”. Unfortunately, women from really long-nosed nations, like Armenia and Moldova, are reluctant to participate for fear of damaging their marital prospects. This is a great shame. I’m sure there are many single men who would love to have their nerve-endings nuzzled by a long-nosed wife. "If you've got it, poke it!" would be an apt slogan for such ladies.

Maybe they need an organisation based on the gay rights movement which encourages them to take pride in their noses. I would volunteer to help with the publicity if they allowed me to tweak a few beaky ones. 

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Electronic seduction

A men’s magazine has published data proving that women are agreeing to sex sooner. Apparently, bombarding a woman with text messages and emails can reduce the number of dates required to get her into bed. I feel sorry for all the ugly girls who used to attract men by being an easy lay, and have now lost their competitive advantage. There are always losers when new technology arrives. 

The winners appear to be men, but I’m not convinced they have gained all that much. Whether they chat to women in person or on-line, they still have to put in the hours. Virtual communication is effectively overtime, which they wouldn’t bother doing unless it shortened the journey to Humpsville. 

The main drawback, from the woman’s point of view, is the risk of fraudulent seduction. One often hears of literate prison inmates acquiring the goodwill of their cellmates by drafting letters for girlfriends and wives. How long before some nerdy poet starts offering to write tender love messages for paying customers? Women imagining themselves to be the muse of an artist would end up as the game bird in a poacher’s sack. 

Male gorillas are lucky in not having to jump through the hoops required of the human male. Women are fickle, and the wrong word at the wrong time can ruin hours of painstaking wooing. Female gorillas, by contrast, don't care what text messages you send them as long as you thump your chest and uproot a few saplings. Smells and deeds are what turn them on.

And yet there are still men who can seduce women without any form of electronic communication. In some cases, indeed, they barely need to say anything intelligible at all. Let us never forget the words that Christiano Ronaldo used to persuade a waitress to mate with him on a visit to Los Angeles: 

“Me, you, fuck, fuck?” asked Ronnie with a look of boyish sincerity on his face. 

The second “fuck” was probably unnecessary, but there’s no harm in repetition if making your meaning clear is of paramount importance. The encounter was a fruitful one, with the waitress bearing Ronaldo a son and letting his family have custody of the baby. Her reward for this selfless act of breeding was $15.1 million. Apparently, Ronaldo’s mother insisted he pay the waitress this extravagant sum so the boy wouldn't be greeted by a toothless hooker if he ever decided to visit her. Never again will I doubt the farsightedness of the mother of a Portuguese footballer. 

Seduction works both ways, of course, although women generally have an easier job of coaxing men into servicing them. The human male is like the female peacock in being aroused by visual displays. We saw a good example of this at the royal wedding, when the bride’s younger sister wore a dress that covered her rump like plastic wrap on a peach. I don’t know who she was trying to excite, but I hope he had the effrontery to goose her at the party that evening.

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Hello Goodbye

I am delighted to hear that Paul McCartney is getting married for the third time. As a friend of the gorilla nation, he is entitled to the warmest of good wishes from me and my females. The omens for this union are good. Paul has wisely gone through a five-year courtship rather than rushing, lemming-like, into wedlock with a woman of avaricious and cantankerous disposition. His fiancé’s first name is Nancy, one of the select few that Macca has used in one of his own compositions. Admittedly, the woman in the song was a saloon bar dancer of easy virtue, but one is entitled to poetic license in making such artistic analogies.

It reflects well on Paul that he is still willing to get hitched after the ignominy of his second marriage. Let us never forget the calumnies that emerged from the poisonous tongue of Ms Heather Mills, who accused her husband, among other things, of being obsessed about her breasts. The woman was clearly unfit for matrimony – an honest wife would have thanked her lucky stars that he wasn’t obsessed about another woman’s breasts. Yet in spite of the humiliations and pecuniary losses he suffered at the hands of his ex-wife, Paul is now taking the plunge with another woman (albeit of very different temperament, one hopes). All those sappy romantic lyrics he wrote must have genuinely come from the heart. 

As one musical man marries, another brawny one divorces. It gives me no pleasure whatever to hear that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wife has given the old beef steer his marching orders, even though he has no one to blame but himself. I don’t know what possessed him to declare that mulatto women have the best behinds. His wife, who is not a mulatto, must have burned with indignation as she strained her neck to inspect her own tush in the bedroom mirror. As a woman from the Kennedy family, she might have forgiven Arnie the odd affair, but she could never tolerate him publicly scorning her charms. Apparently his remark was made on the spur of the moment, after a Brazilian samba dancer nudged him with her buttocks, but there are times when a husband should salivate in silence. A wise man never comments about the first thing that rubs against his thigh. 

Arnie’s troubles remind me of the advice I gave Smacker Ramrod before he popped the question to his current lady wife. My devoted circus buddy had asked me whether he ought to inform his intended of his past dalliances and debaucheries, of which there had been many. 

“Don’t do it, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “However much she says it doesn’t matter, it will always prey on her mind! Just smile enigmatically if she asks. Let sleeping cats lie!” 

I am pleased to say that Smacker followed my advice and has remained happily married for almost a decade. As we say in the jungle, the truth is like a hornet sting – only give it to creatures with a thick hide. 

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Literature appreciation

A correspondent draws my attention to a new stage production in which passages from great works of literature are read to the audience. To ensure customers get full value for the 20-dollar admission price, the reading is done by naked women who wouldn’t look out of place in the Playboy mansion. Those who can’t get hold of a ticket can buy a video recording for 19 dollars or an audio recording for 99 cents. 

On watching a trailer for the event, I was shocked to discover that the girls aren’t actually very good at reading. Some of them can barely pant out the words without tripping over their tongues. Heaven knows how they get away with fobbing off the audience with such amateurish performances. I certainly wouldn’t let them read me a bedtime story until they’d been properly trained in oral exposition. 

Perhaps the featured works are too advanced for their reading skills. Had I been directing the show, I would have made them read excerpts from children’s classics such as Puss in Boots, James and the Giant Peach and The Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse. These innocent fables would also avoid straining the brains of the audience, which are presumably more accustomed to processing visual data. The unlettered masses should feel their way into literature rather than jumping off at the deep end. 

The show wouldn’t be my cup of cocoa whatever the nature of the reading material. When I pay 20 dollars for a seat at the theatre, I like to see action as well as dialogue. The only kinetic activity in ‘Naked Girls Reading’ is the flapping of lips, the wagging of tongues and the fingering of pages. The girls should be utilising the rest of their bodies to justify the admission price. 

‘Naked Girls Singing’ would be an improvement, assuming it produced more activity in the chest region. ‘Naked Girls Playing Ping Pong’ would be better still, involving plenty of agitation in all areas of the anatomy. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he’d like to see, he unfocused his eyes and went into a trance for a minute: 

“Naked girls sucking ice lollies and removing the sticky juices that dribble onto their bodies by licking each other,” he said eventually. 

I told him that a title of that length would never work and I had reservations about the content as well. Women are not cats, and making them lick each other would merely replace one kind of sticky fluid with another. Using moisturising wipes would be a more hygienic option under theatre lights. 

On the subject of health and safety, I have deliberately not opined on whether it’s appropriate for women to perform in the nude. The naturists believe it tones the skin and allows the pores to breathe, but they are not an impartial source. All I will say is that I wouldn’t let them do it in jungle. Not without first rubbing them from head to toe with insect-repellent, anyway.

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Scarlett's phantom pregnancy

Scarlett Johannson has denied that she’s carrying Sean Penn’s baby and I, for one, believe her. The bulge in her belly could have many innocent explanations, such as a bout of dropsy or too many side orders of potato wedges. She might even be hiding a gopher beneath her sweater like a mommy kangaroo. Most actresses go through a sentimental phase about animals. We gorillas will always remember the visit of Daryl Hannah, who approached our hairy community like a girl in search of a piggy-back ride. A kindly female patted her on the head and gave her some roots to chew. 

There’s another reason why Scarlett is unlikely to be pregnant – I seriously doubt whether The Pennster’s man-seed is up to the job. Actors who’ve led dissolute, drug-taking lives often end up with lackadaisical sperm that chase their own tails rather than making a beeline for the nearest egg. The couple must have had carnal relations, of course. A woman doesn’t shack up with one of Hollywood’s leading men unless she’s ready and willing to spread her legs for him. Refusing to oblige would have certainly provoked a huge tantrum from Penn, possibly culminating in Mel Gibson-like threats to burn the house down. 

One thing that doesn’t surprise me is Scarlett taking to an older man. Those of you who’ve seen the film Lost in Translation will know what I’m talking about. In that movie, she plays a bewildered young woman who wanders around Tokyo looking for someone to talk to. Amid the unsettling hordes of inscrutable Japanese, she finds an American man played by Bill Murray, who soothes her troubled soul with his mellow reflections. It was obvious, even then, that Scarlet hankered after a craggy-faced Daddy figure who would tell her bedtime stories while balancing her on his knee. You may say that she was only acting, but A-list thespians habitually draw on their own emotions to make their performances convincing. 

Speaking of older men, the relentless hounding of Silvio Berlusconi is beginning to get on my nerves. The latest accusation against him is that he encouraged a pair of party girls to make love to a statue of the god Priapus, whose broken todger he had previously repaired. Is this supposed to be a crime? What would be the point of restoring a statue’s manhood if you didn’t intend to help it use its new equipment? If a man is prosecuted for being a pimp to a restored work of art, the emasculated sculptures of the world will remain forever dickless. 

The allegation I utterly refuse to believe is that Berlusconi has had sexual congress with multiple high-class harlots in his “bunga-bunga” parties. Aside from the fact that “bunga-bunga” means “masturbation” in the Congo, the statue incident proves beyond doubt that he prefers watching to participating. A wily old goat like Silvio knows better than to endanger his health by allowing whores to milk his waning gonads. When a man gets to his age, vicarious titillation is a safer option than the real McCoy.

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Secrets of women

I’m back in the Congo after an unusually pleasant flight. For once, the stewardess didn’t give me a funny look when I used the hot towel to dampen the soles of my feet. The other passengers in first class, who were diplomats and ministers, knew better than to complain about my creative use of the toiletries. An aluminium tube 30,000 feet above sea level is the wrong place for an argument with a gorilla. 

What really made the time fly was the book I was reading, a translation of De Secretis Mulierum, an ancient guidebook on the human female. It was written by Albertus “Catweazle” Magnus, a medieval theologian with unusually progressive views about women for his time, only advocating their torture in extreme cases of witchcraft or hen-pecking. The main thrust of his argument was that women should be shunned, especially when menstruating, when they emitted “evil humours” capable of killing a goat at ten paces. 

The chapter of the book I found most fascinating describes a foolproof test for female virginity, no doubt perfected after months of clinical trials. According to Doctor Magnus, a woman whose purity is in doubt should be forced to sniff a lettuce. If her flesh has been corrupted by man (or some other agent of defilement), she will then pass water. It was state-of-the-art science in its day, although one has to pity the innocent maids who gave false positives because they’d drunk a flagon of prune juice before inhaling the salad fumes. 

The only modern equivalent of this virginity test I’ve heard of is the one proposed by Vladimir Rakovsky, a Russian psychologist who runs a charm school in Moscow. According to Rakovsky, you can find out everything you need to know about a woman by watching her eat a carrot. If she blushes and nibbles, she’s a virgin; if she chews like a horse, she’s a fishwife; if she sucks before biting, she’s slept with every member of the village council. He didn’t say what kind of woman would refuse to eat the carrot. A lesbian or a prick-teaser, perhaps? In all honesty, the test sounds as if was devised by someone who spent his youth peeping at hefty farm girls during their lunch break. 

Fortunately, we now live in an enlightened age when no man of substance cares whether the woman he courts is a virgin. Take Charlie Sheen, for example. I bet he never even bothered to ask Bree Olson whether she was a virgin before inviting her to join the harem in his kingsize bed. Miss Olson, for her part, has not given any indication of feeling ashamed that Charlie was not her first lover. Indeed, her self-esteem was so undiminished that she callously dumped him by text message. 

Good for both of them, is what I say. Charlie deserves credit for believing that a woman with a past is still worthy of his cocaine-snorting lechery. And Bree deserves credit for not clinging to Charlie out of fear that no other man could afford her. I like it when famous humans set a good example for their fans.

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