Strip for Putin

It seems the Russians still have a long way to go before they understand how the free market works. A bevy of the nation’s most beautiful women are supporting Mr Putin’s bid to regain the presidency in 2012 by taking off their clothes. I dare say ogling their naked bodies is as good a reason as any to vote for Pootikins, but you don’t bribe the voters by giving them the goodies in advance. They should have offered to strip off after their hero got elected Czar again. 

Putin has been an explosive sex symbol for Russian women ever since he promised to wipe out terrorists when they were sitting on the toilet. It takes a special kind of ruthlessness to blow a man away when he’s taking a dump. Most assassins wait until their victim has emptied his bowels and scoured with paper or douche. We gorillas would never attack an adversary who was answering a call of nature. Shitting animals are civilians in the jungle, and confronting them runs the risk of stepping in their poop. 

Now, Putin has been keeping very quiet about his stripper fan club and I don’t blame him. If he publicly disowns them he’ll look like an ungrateful KGB apparachnik, but if he thanks them too warmly people might think he put them up to it. In the heyday of my circus career, I attracted a large following of nubile young women, who sometimes deigned to show their devotion by disrobing. I never encouraged them. A busty young lady once told me she was going to dance topless through the streets of her home town with “GORILLA” printed on one breast and “BANANAS” printed on the other. Believe me, they were big enough for the words to fit. 

“Your adulation touches me greatly,” I said, “but I cannot publicly acknowledge your gesture or thank you for it.” 

“Don’t you want me to do it?” she asked. 

“It is not for me to forbid you,” I replied. “Do what you must do, but don’t expect me to attend the event or cheer you on. A family entertainer must maintain a discreet silence when a woman jiggles her jahoobies in his honour.” 

As you can see, my answer occupied the narrow middle ground between incitement and disapproval. She nevertheless interpreted it as a green light to proceed. When my circus colleagues rushed excitedly to tell me that she’d exhibited her assets to great hoopla, I maintained a poker face. 

“She was courteous enough to inform me of her plans in advance,” I remarked dryly. “I am glad she found an appreciative audience.” 

Her performance attracted the interest of various media outlets, and the graffiti on her bosom did not go unnoticed. This resulted in excellent publicity for my act, and our shows were sold out for the rest of the summer. As a token of my gratitude, I sent her a gift from the lingerie department of Selfridges, signing the card “Your hairy idol”. There’s no point displaying false modesty to a fan. 

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The frog that won't croak

The manager of the safari camp has bet me 15 coconuts that Robert Mugabe will be ready for embalming before the year is out. He certainly looks overdue if recent photos are anything to go by. Yet Mugabe is telling his followers that he plans to live to 100, by which time he might resemble the skull and crossbones on a pirate flag. Zanu PF could then create a new party emblem called the “Jolly Robert” to terrify their opponents into submission. 

My jungle instincts tell me that a man of Mugabe’s character has too much demonic energy to die of natural causes. He feels the world is against him, which makes him cussed and resilient, capable of puffing out defiant rhetoric until his enemies have run out of steam. 

Enemy Number 1 is the former colonial power, which he refers to as the “Gay United Kingdom”. Relations hit rock bottom during a private visit to London in 1999, when a gay rights campaigner jumped into his limousine and tried to arrest him. Mugabe was badly shaken by the incident, believing, in his vanity, that he was about to be molested. Every since then he has railed against the British government and its “gay gangsters” for orchestrating a queer conspiracy against him. 

Many Zimbabweans, of course, believe that Mugabe himself is a repressed homosexual, like Mr Garrison in South Park. There is certainly something rather camp about him when he pontificates and postures in one of his brightly-coloured shirts. My own theory is that his hatred of gay men originates from his dealings with the late Canaan Banana, his old Zanu PF comrade, who gave him regular prostate examinations. When it was later discovered that Banana was a gay date rapist, Mugabe felt violated and humiliated, even though he’d probably enjoyed the examinations as much as Banana.

Perhaps the manager is hoping that an assassin will finish Mugabe off. The cleanest method of dispatch would be to shock him to death with a devastating insult. African autocrats have incredibly fragile egos which can’t handle disrespect from the common rabble. Mugabe was so upset when a policeman used his private toilet that he sent him to prison, even though the poor fellow was desperate. It would be wrong to single out Mugabe for this peculiarly African vice. In neighbouring South Africa, a man was arrested and roughed up for showing Jacob Zuma his middle finger. 

In an ideal world, an assassin with an exceptionally wobbly behind would moon at Mugabe during his daily breathing exercises, causing him to expire with his tongue hanging out. Unfortunately, it’s unlikely that the mooner could get close enough to dominate his field of view. A more feasible plan would be hiring a fearless wag to traumatise the tyrant with vulgar abuse from a megaphone. 

“Hey Mugabe!” he might boom to get his attention. “Your head is so far up your arse that you don’t know whether you’re talking or farting!” 

A scatological barb of that severity should puncture his airbags for good.

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Unbelievable

 

I’m coming to the conclusion that surveys of human mating practices are worthless. The participants simply say what they think the interviewer wants to hear rather than confessing their deepest desires (to say nothing of their kinkiest fetishes). 

I base my opinion on the results of a recent survey of human couples in long-term relationships. It appears that the women said regular sex was essential, whereas the men said they needed to be kissed and cuddled. After pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t in a parallel universe, I realised what must have happened. The women were so worried about appearing needy and emotional that they pretended to be men, while the men were so fearful of looking like heartless lechers that they pretended to be women. The result of all this disinformation was a report with findings that would make a baboon chortle. 

The ability of humans to lie convincingly is a big problem for us anthropological apes. Mother Nature has designed the face of homo sapiens to be the perfect lying machine. Those devious inscrutable eyes; that prominent nose (which unlike Pinocchio’s remains the same length unless you pull it); that weaselly mouth, capable of beguiling the naïve listener with its forked-tongued phrases. Many an honest gorilla has been hoodwinked by deceitful humans. 

Fortunately, my time in the circus enabled me to hone my human-face-reading skills. I remember a clown once asking me not to kick his arse during our act, because his pelvis had been replaced by a metal plate after a riding accident. 

“You would break your foot,” he warned, apparently concerned for my welfare. 

I sensed he was lying from the way his eyebrows twitched as he spoke. After some diligent detective work, I discovered that the only metal plates in his backside were those he stuffed into his underpants before putting on his costume. To teach him a lesson, I entered the ring with a large mallet in hand and smashed his buttocks like a pair of cymbals. The audience loved it. 

Another devilish trick humans employ is to tell you something that sounds like a tall story which turns out to be true. A few days ago, the manager of the safari camp asked me if I’d been invited to the “monkey wedding” in India. 

“A simian of your stature ought to be present at this ground-breaking event,” he said. “If I were a monkey I’d want you to be my best man.” 

“You don’t say,” I replied. “Well, unfortunately I’ve got a prior engagement to attend a chimpanzee christening before going to the barber to get my arse-hairs trimmed.” 

“Look it up if you don’t believe me,” he said sniggering.

I did and was amazed to find a corroborating news item. It seems that an Indian villager brought up a monkey as his son and found a bride for him in a neighbouring village. Their betrothal was celebrated with a traditional Indian jamboree involving saffron and plenty of coconuts. I don’t see it lasting unless their tails are tied together.

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The Atkins diet

Silly scientists are claiming that we gorillas invented the Atkins diet. On behalf of the gorilla nation, I issue an official denial. The scientists who came up with the idea are a bevy of boobies and a caboodle of clowns. Pour scorn on this nonsense if anyone asks you about it. You can tell them you heard it from the horse’s mouth. 

The Atkins diet was actually invented by lions, who eat nothing but fresh meat garnished with tufts of grass for seasoning and decoration. Actresses copied the diet after noticing that lions never seem to get fat, even after gorging themselves on the equivalent of 67 wildebeest burgers. This may be true, but another consequence of their meat-addiction is chronic halitosis, making it impossible for them to kiss during mating. 

Thus, actresses who followed the Atkins diet maintained slim figures at the expense of getting lion breath. A good many subsequently got divorced because their husbands refused to kiss them and insisted on having sex in the “rodeo” position. Female performers are far too vain to be humped like lionesses, however how bad their breath is. 

My advice to actresses is to forget about dieting. You can’t develop your range if you keep on playing skinny women trying to catch the eye of the leading man. There were times in human history when it was fashionable for women to have some meat on them – consequently, the period drama is a bonanza for chubby actresses. Queen Victoria is the classic role for the small plump woman with a round bottom. Ann of Cleves, affectionately known as “The Mare of Flanders”, is suitable for the more heifer-like figure. In years to come, casting directors will be looking for someone to play Oprah in a biopic. Black women with the bodies of cheerleaders need not apply. 

I shouldn’t leave you with the impression that I have a particular animus against actresses. Male thespians are just as insecure, although less often about their weight. Take George Clooney, for example. He was so worried about what people would think, following his recent break-up with the gorgeous Elisabetta Canalis, that he got one of his flunkies to make a statement on his behalf: 

“I saw them together and I can say their love story was very intense,” said Manuele Malenotti. “You never know in life, and men are having an identity crisis, but I can tell you George is not gay.” 

I find this rather pathetic. Surely no one even imagined Clooney was gay before he started getting paranoid about it. Not being willing or able to settle down with a woman doesn’t necessarily mean you’re hungry for cock. Having said all that, one can’t help wondering about him now that he’s made such a big issue of it. And his use of interlocutors is cowardly and unconvincing. If George Clooney isn’t gay, he should say so himself instead of getting one of his boyfriends to deny it. (For the record, I think that he and Richard Gere would make an attractive couple.) 

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Tarentino is a sucker

A 23-year-old woman called Beejoli Shah is claiming that Quentin Tarentino sucked her toes during a sexual encounter at the movie maker's residence. Her story is entirely credible, of course. It would be surprising if a man of Tarentino's character did not engage in kinky and unsavoury fetishes. One has to wonder, nevertheless, why Miss Shah was so eager to confess her part in this ugly incident. Was she warning future "guests" about what to expect if they ventured into the lizard grotto that Tarentino uses for a bedroom? You couldn’t fault her for that. 

She definitely exceeded her tattling rights, however, when she complained about the appearance of Tarentino's penis, describing it as "the chode of all chodes". Even prostitutes generally avoid such graphic language for fear of giving people nightmares. Someone should tell Miss Shah that Mother Nature did not create the male appendage for ornamental purposes. Its function is to do a job of work rather than bask in compliments from female admirers. 

Incidentally, I have a theory that the practice of circumcision originated as an attempt to prettify the penis, so that Jewish maidens would not be horrified by what they saw on their wedding night. Although a nice girl doesn't look, she can't always control what pops in front of her eyes, especially if the man she marries throws all delicacy to the winds once the forbidden fruits of her fruitery are no longer forbidden. 

Regrettably, Miss Shah's behaviour suggests that she is something other than a nice girl. What can one say about a young Asian woman who drops her knickers for a famous film director with indecent haste, and then shamelessly spills the beans to her friends? Nothing complimentary, that’s for sure. The fact that she is a graduate of Berkeley College compounds the disgrace. The University of California should create a new degree classification for floozies of her calibre called "summa cum-on-my-face". 

One thing Miss Shah shouldn't have to worry about is getting sued. I doubt even Tarentino would expose himself in open court to pursue a claim for dick defamation – the risk of the jurors agreeing with the defendant would be too great. She is luckier, in this respect, than Miss Lisa Ostermann, who received a court summons after referring to a man as "the biggest asshole in the world" on her Facebook page. A complicating factor in the case was that the fellow she insulted happened to be her father. 

No one likes to see a daughter call her father an anus, even if it happens to be true. That sort of epithet should be reserved for cads, bounders and gym trainers who make unflattering remarks about the shape of one's tush. I'm glad to say that Papa Ostermann dropped his lawsuit after the matter was resolved behind closed doors, presumably by persuading his daughter to eat an extra-large helping of humble pie. As my friend Lady Chuffington says, a family's dirty linen should be washed in private, possibly with the aid of a biological detergent.

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Rap queens

An academic from Texas, by the name of Dr Mia Moody, is claiming that female rappers often write lyrics boasting about their sexual prowess. Before giving credence to this shocking allegation, it would be prudent to review the evidence thoroughly. Such a precaution would be particularly apt in this case, as “Dr Mia Moody” sounds suspiciously like the pseudonym of a mischievous hoaxer. However, given that I can’t be bothered to carry out the necessary investigations, I will assume, for the sake of argument, that there are sufficient particles of truth in Dr Moody’s findings to make them worthy of comment. 

What can one say about women who tell people they are fantastic in bed? As well as being extremely unladylike, I would consider their bragging to be devoid of substance. Men are simply too varied in their coital preferences to give such boasts any clear meaning: some of them want a dominatrix who will tie them to the bed-posts before straddling them; others desire a dainty wood nymph who will whimper submissively during copulation. Admittedly, a high-class harlot might be versatile enough to satisfy the diverse and peculiar whims of her clientele, but this is clearly not what the conceited rappess has in mind when she tells her listeners she’s the hottest snake-handler on the planet. 

My ape intuition tells me that what these lyrics mean is that the performer has an insatiable sexual appetite, capable of draining the virile energy of the baddest mofo in town, leaving him lying on her rug with his paws in the air like a desiccated lizard. In other words, that she is good at enjoying herself in bed, rather than good at pleasing her partner. While it’s true that most men would prefer a woman who derives pleasure from their virile exertions, not many would wish to tangle with a voracious meat-grinder capable of turning the mightiest sausage into mince. A wise rooster avoids the hen who needs to get laid more frequently than her eggs do. 

Rap, it must be said, is a lowbrow art form. Aggressive chanting is what one expects to hear from a mob of garrulous football supporters rather than a performing artist. Women who aspire to excel in such a macho and misogynistic pastime must be suffering from some kind of hormonal imbalance, which might explain why they boast about their sexual abilities. The queen bee has to buzz loudly if she wants to be serviced by an unending procession of drones.

The only rap song I ever enjoyed was an ironic sporting ditty called Come on, Aussie, come on!, sung by a man who was obviously an outlandish humbug. I defy you to listen to it three times without joining in at the chorus. It now has an exalted place in my pantheon of favourite Australian hits, a coterie which includes Tie me kangaroo down! and Bite me arse, yer drongo! You can always trust the Australians to turn something vulgar and inane into a humorous classic. 

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Reservoir dog

I hear the authorities in Portland have drained an 8-million gallon reservoir because a man was filmed urinating in it. 

“Nobody wants to drink pee,” said the head of the city’s water bureau. 

Who gave him the authority to speak for mankind? I know for a fact that many humans are dedicated piss-drinkers, convinced of the fluid’s therapeutic properties. A celebrated exponent of the practice is the English actress Sarah Miles, whom I met many years ago after a circus show. 

“Miss Miles, how delightful to meet you!” I said. “What a fine performance you gave in Ryan’s Daughter! You must have been pretty uncomfortable when Robert Mitchum slumped on top of you in the wedding night scene.” 

“Thank you, GB,” she said smiling coyly. “Fortunately I emptied my bladder into a thermos flask before we shot that scene. It gave me something to drink during the tea break.” 

“How fascinating!” I exclaimed. “Did it taste good?” 

“It’s a bit like weak beer,” she said. “Would you like to try some? 

“Thank you, Sarah, but we gorillas have no need of beverages. We get all the moisture we need from our lush and fruity diet.” 

It goes without saying that I would have rather sucked a frog dry than sample Sarah’s effluence, but one has to be tactful when refusing a woman’s water. She went on to say that drinking your own pee protects you against allergies and poisons any parasites in your blood. I almost believed her. 

But let’s get back to the Portland piddler. By my calculation, the concentration of urine in the reservoir following the unlawful micturation was one part in 100 million. This is less than the concentration in the sea (where fish relieve themselves continuously) and far less than the concentration in swimming pools, which human infants use as pissoirs. Thus, the decision to drain the reservoir cannot be explained as a public health precaution. 

Perhaps the real reason for pulling the plug on all that water was to protect the honour of the city’s residents. Taking a leak on another person’s property has been an act of ritual humiliation since the Bronze Age, when the Assyrians pissed in the wells of their enemies. Witness the rage of the suburban householder whose flowers beds are watered by a neighbour’s dog, even though the nitrogen-rich dog-pee is a tonic for thirsty plants. 

Another possibility is that the fellow chose to empty his bladder into the reservoir because it was too big a target to miss. As every lavatory attendant knows, the human male is a remarkably inaccurate pisser. My friend Lady Chuffington has a grand home in England which contains several bathrooms and standalone lavatories. In every one of them is a sign with the following instructions on it: 

IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE 

PLEASE BE NEAT AND WIPE THE SEAT 

As no human males reside in the property, the sign is purely for visitors. Shaming men into cleaning up their mess is more tactful than telling them to pee sitting down, which would be an affront to their manhood. 

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