Hungry for power

The manager of the safari camp refuses to believe that Sarah Palin had a fetish for black men in her carefree days as a nubile college nymph. 

“There’s no way a white woman would marry a Caucasian after sleeping with black men,” he declared. “When they’ve had black, there’s no going back.” 

“Perhaps it was a case of ‘too much of a good thing’,” I suggested. “I’ve heard of humans going off chocolate after binging on those dark chunky slabs they sell in the supermarket.” 

“Fish-paste!” scoffed the manager. “A woman doesn’t go off men for being too chunky. Not unless they make her do kinky stuff, like biting their buttocks while the dog is watching. Black men aren’t into such vices.” 

“I humbly bow to your superior knowledge,” I replied. “Your scholarship in this field is clearly second to none.” 

Unfortunately for Sarah, the rumour will damage her politically whether or not it’s true. Many white men will deeply resent the idea that black college athletes enjoyed the flower of her womanhood at its freshest, while her hapless husband had to make do with the stale leftovers. I don’t see how the Republican Party could nominate her now, given that she’d have to take part in live TV debates with President Obama. All that Barry would have to do is flex his forearms and throw her a wink to make her go weak at the knees. 

The unwritten rule for a woman with political ambitions is to get elected before embarking upon a sex scandal. Consider the case of Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who governs Australia in the name of the Queen. Before becoming prime minister, she fooled people into thinking she was a frigid schoolmistress who changed her knickers every time the wind blew up her skirt. When I say “people” I mean “humans”, of course. We gorillas knew she was an insatiable vixen from the minute she entered politics. You don’t deny yourself the carnal delights if you’ve got the orang-utan gene. 

Now that her hands are on the levers of power, a show has appeared on Australian TV depicting an alleged kerfuffle on the floor of her office, in which she and her fancy man canoodle nakedly beneath the national flag. I’d be very surprised if this patriotic frolic will offend the voters. The last thing the Australian electorate want is a frustrated woman who obviously isn’t getting any to boss them around.

“What about Hilldog?” I hear you ask. I personally think it’s too late for Mrs Clinton to revive her flagging political career by having sex with someone. People would think she was doing it to win votes rather than because she genuinely enjoyed it. It’s time for the Democrats to pass the torch to a new generation of highly-energised hotties with the drive and ambition to get on top and stay there. If Chelsea isn’t interested, the heir apparent has got to be Monica Lewinsky. There aren’t many women in America with her record of selfless service.

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Sky high mischief

Tending bar at the safari guesthouse, I overhear the humans debating the safety of air travel. They agree that flying is the safest form of transportation, unless there is an accident or some crackpot terrorist sneaks on board. In either of those lamentable scenarios, they liken boarding an aeroplane to a death sentence with no possibility of reprieve. Hence the best thing for passengers to do, they conclude, is intoxicate themselves with alcohol to ensure they are suitably zonked out if the worst happens. 

This coping strategy seems to be a popular one, judging by a spate of alcohol-induced incidents on commercial jets. A recent one involved a comely young woman by the name of Katherine Goldberg, who drank a pint of whisky on a return flight from South Africa to London. Unfortunately, the quantity of liquor she consumed had the effect of liberating her inner hussy rather than rendering her senseless. One assumes she’ll learn from her mistake and drink two pints next time. 

What happened on the flight was this: Miss Goldberg clutched the private parts of an air steward and demanded his sexual favours. Caught by surprise, the man appealed to his co-workers for assistance without responding to her request. The cabin crew then harried the disappointed woman back to her seat and informed the captain of her misconduct. She was later reported to the authorities, who promptly charged her with sexual assault. 

After reading about this sorry affair, I got in touch with my old friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, to acquaint him with the facts of the case. Although critical of Miss Goldberg’s behaviour, which he described as “futile” and “inopportune”, he was adamant that he wouldn’t have pressed charges if he’d been the air steward. 

“A man who prosecutes a woman for groping him is a pussy,” he declared stoutly. 

Smacker said that he would have grabbed Miss Goldberg by the wrists and escorted her to the galley for a private chat. After giving her a stern lecture on the etiquette of making propositions, he would have sent her back to her seat with her cheeks flushed red with shame. He added that he would have given her his business card so she could contact him if she needed further advice. 

I must say I prefer Smacker’s “tough love” approach to putting the woman on trial. She seems like a good-natured girl who made a mistake because her brain was befuddled by the demon brew. How will the public interest be served by raking over the coals in front of a haughty judge and a smirking jury? Far better to deal with her issues informally with a friendly pat on the backside. 

In the general scheme of things, of course, there is nothing wrong with a woman grasping a man’s todger. I am certain that the world would be a happier place if it happened more frequently. Once Katherine learns there is a time and a place for everything, those who cultivate her acquaintance will surely be touched with many blessings.

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Duck delusion

The manager of the safari camp is laughing his head off at a news story from England. Apparently, a hoary old farmer is being followed everywhere by a duck, which mistook him for its mother after hatching in his pocket. In the manager’s eyes, such mollycoddling of a duck egg is patently absurd: 

“Why didn’t he just soft boil it for breakfast!” he chortled. “The yolk would have been delicious on strips of toast.” 

“I believe the English farming fraternity prefer their eggs fried with bacon,” I said. “And now and again, they are swayed by their consciences to treat an egg in accordance with its parents’ wishes.” 

“Aren’t they just, the sentimental ninnies!” proclaimed the manager guffawing. “That’s what happens in a nation of animal lovers. The beasts become tame and the children run wild!” 

 

“Bravo, manager!” I exclaimed. “I shall add your pithy aside to my list of never-to-be-forgotten proverbs.” 

Are the English really a nation of animal lovers? That depends very much on both the animal and the lover. Many of them love dogs, many of them love cats, but few of them love both. Foxes are adored by the urbanites and persecuted by the country folk. Fish are ruthlessly fished in the belief that they derive some perverse enjoyment from wriggling at the end of a line. 

As for us gorillas, we are feared by some and admired by others. Occasionally that admiration swells into outright hero-worship, but I have dealt with this syndrome in previous posts, and have no wish to indulge in gratuitous boasting. 

The complex attitude of the English to animals is highlighted in another news item about a man who defecated on a dead hedgehog. The hedgehog is a much-loved creature of the English woodland, which often receives snacks from humans, yet relatively few of its benefactors feel obliged to treat its remains with respect. Only pets adopted as surrogate family members are given a Christian burial in England. 

I should add that the man who crapped on the hedgehog was arrested and put on trial for his misdeed. As with many cases of this type, the pivotal issue is the intent behind the act. If the accused deliberately pooped on the deceased animal, it’s as clear an example of a hate crime as you could wish to see. He ought to languish in prison until his nose hairs turn grey. But if he simply emptied his bowels recklessly without looking where he was shitting, he ought to be left off with a warning. I speak as a gorilla who may have accidentally dumped on the odd dead critter after getting caught short on jungle expeditions. 

Of course, it says something about England that you can be prosecuted for defecating on a dead hedgehog. In less enlightened nations, such behaviour would barely elicit a murmur of disapproval from onlookers, or even be cheered as an inventive form of high jinks. There is probably no better place for an animal to pop its clogs.                     
         

Update: The man was fined £200 and barred from Scotland for 3 days. (There are a lot of dead hedgehogs in danger of being pooped on in Scotland).

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French divorce settlement

I have a certain amount of sympathy for the Frenchman who had to pay his ex-wife 10,000 euros for not having sex with her during their marriage. A French court ruled that a wife is entitled to a regular rogering from her husband, and must be financially compensated if the said rogering is not delivered with reasonable frequency. Speaking as a gorilla who has been ruthlessly pressed into service by females in season, I would never dispute a woman’s right to have her natural yearnings satisfied. Rather like a postage stamp, the female of the species must be moistened and mounted to fulfil her destiny. 

What I don’t think is fair is putting all the blame on the man for the absence of conjugal deeds. To my way of thinking, a resourceful wife should always be capable of goading her husband into giving her a good seeing to. Did this particular lady just lie on the bed like a sack of potatoes, waiting to be ravished like a sacrificial virgin? If so, she must accept her share of the blame for the lack of bedroom action. Sometimes a woman must take the bull by the horns rather than waiting for the beast to gore her. 

I am reminded of the scene in Midnight Cowboy where young Joe Buck is inexplicably unable to oblige a funky femme fatale who has hired him for that purpose. She then challenges him to a game of Scrabble and puts a suggestive word on the board, provoking him to pounce on her like a tomcat. 

The other puzzling aspect of this case is that the wife supposedly endured 21 years of a sexless marriage before deciding to call it a day. That’s a hell of a long time to realise that something is amiss in your relationship. It makes me wonder whether she was really celibate for all those years. Most wives in her situation would invite their tennis instructor home to practice his serve-and-volley, soon to be followed by the postman, the plumber and the hard-hatted workman with a tool belt. 

Having said all that, the past is past, and there’s point crying over skimmed milk. The woman is 47 years old with money in her purse and plenty of lost time to make up for. Some would say that she should settle down with an honest fellow who will shag her twice a week and go down on her on their wedding anniversary. I would advise her to get sowed with a few wild oats before committing herself to another matrimonial project. 

I don’t know whether you can look up gigolos in the Yellow Pages, but one assumes they have ways of advertising their services. If she doesn’t trust the dandies of her native land to deliver value for money, she could always visit Africa and hire the young bucks who hang out on our beaches. Most of them don’t speak French, but that shouldn’t matter – they are used to giving satisfaction on a pidgin vocabulary. 

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Swiss brothel fire

News arrives of a brothel in Switzerland that was burned to the ground after its owner lit a barbecue for his guests. It’s a timely warning for anyone running a business in the hospitality industry. Trying too hard to please the customer by offering services outside your area of expertise often ends in disaster. We’ve never been tempted to make call girls a part of the safari experience in Africa. Humans with sex on the brain are prone to rash acts in the presence of wild animals. 

The Swiss brothel-owner should have known that a bawdyhouse doesn’t need gimmicks like a barbecue unless it’s in the wrong place. If I were starting up in the madam-ing business, I’d choose a seaside town with a warm climate. Sea air and naked flesh are what stimulate the human libido. Sex will never be a popular pastime in a country like Switzerland, famed for its mountain hikers and thermal underwear. The average Swiss couple copulate twice a year while holidaying in Italy or Greece – and not necessarily with each other. 

Before anyone accuses me of being anti-Swiss, let me say that I have every respect for the concept of a Swiss-themed brothel. Buxom milkmaids, cuckoo clocks and girls called Heidi are the dog’s bollocks for a certain type of punter. I’m sure a bordello like that would rake in the cash in Rio or Acapulco. The point is that you need to have a party atmosphere to encourage hanky-panky, and the Swiss are not party animals. Theirs is an alpine lifestyle, where cold showers and yodelling on the hillside take precedence over socialising with other humans. 

The main problem for any entrepreneur who needs to relocate abroad is understanding the local language. I’ve never understood why a genetically uniform species like homo sapiens speaks in such an absurd babble of different dialects. Why, for example, are there two types of Chinese? Isn’t it bad enough for the Peking Chinaman to be incomprehensible to the rest of the world without also being incomprehensible to his countryman in Shanghai? 

Some humans, of course, exploit this confusion by becoming multi-lingual. Like parrots, they thrive on hearing foreign words and repeating them frequently. An example of such is Rianhan Brooksbank-Jones, a pretty polyglot with a peculiar obsession about Korea. Her fascination with their oriental tongue is so great that she is having her own tongue surgically lengthened to speak it with greater fluency. 

I must say I never realised Koreans had long tongues. It’s an attribute that would serve them well in the jungle, where there is no shortage of tasty titbits that need to be winkled out of crannies. That’s not something I would expect a well-bred girl like Miss Brooksbank-Jones to do, of course. After a busy morning spent babbling in Korean, she could volunteer to lick envelopes and postage stamps for a local charity. And then, before supper, she could stick out her tongue at bossy old fishwives from her bedroom window. Those who possess an unusual gift should do what they can to give something back to the community.

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The dangers of bull seed

 

I hear the authorities in Tennessee closed an interstate highway after several canisters of bull semen fell off a bus. Frustrated motorists accused them of overreacting, but I say it’s better to be safe than sorry. It only takes one mad woman with a bull-impregnation fantasy to create a Minotaur-like monster that would shock the world. Religious fundamentalists would claim a creature like that portended some dire prophecy, and incite their followers to make a hullabaloo. We don’t need a lot of excitable humans tugging their beards in wide-eyed fervour. 

We gorillas are very wary of interspecies mating and the begetting of bizarre crossbreeds. Humans are fascinated by the idea because they’ve been misled by propaganda on popular TV shows. Consider Mr Spock of the Enterprise. He’s supposedly a Vulcan-human hybrid, yet is capable of anything a pure-bred Vulcan can do, while retaining the human ability to raise one eyebrow in ironic disdain. Real-life hybrids are nothing like as stylish or proficient. Mating a horse with a mule produces an ass, and no one in his right mind wants to be an ass. 

Perhaps women who want to breed with a bull-like creature should ask Gerard Depardieu for a test tube of his man goo. He shouldn’t wish to deny them, as jerking off more frequently might alleviate his prostate condition. He claimed to have this infirmity after relieving himself in a plastic bottle on the aisle of a passenger jet. As the bottle wasn’t big enough for the contents of his bladder, the plane had to be evacuated while the carpet was shampooed. 

Depardieu’s fellow passengers were naturally shocked by his exhibition and assumed he’d pissed in front them because he was pissed himself. Although this would be a reasonable presumption to make of a Frenchman, I prefer to put his behaviour down to desperation. The facts indicate that the cabin staff barred him entry to the lavatory because the plane was about to take off, which must have riled the pants off him. One shouldn’t expect a man to observe the normal decencies when his taut bladder is in a state of anticipation. 

An actor whose prostate must be in tip-top condition is George Clooney. I say this because an ex-girlfriend of his has revealed that one of his favourite pastimes was sharing a hot tub with his men friends. Apparently they did it naked, in the style of the ancient Greeks. I don’t believe Clooney’s buddies would have risked such an intimate convocation if there was the slightest chance of underwater leakage from the great man. 

Clooney has brushed off suggestions that there’s anything fishy about enjoying a naked soak with one’s boyfriends. 

“I’ve always had really great friends on both sides of the aisle, so to speak,” he explained. 

I don’t doubt this for a minute, but why does one side of the aisle get special bath-time privileges at the Clooney residence? I’m beginning to suspect he feels awkward in the presence of naked women.

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Hopping mad

I do hope the Czech authorities are lenient with Benji the kangaroo, who ran amok in Prague, stealing ladies’ knickers as he hopped from garden to garden. A kangaroo doesn’t do such things out of malice or depravity, and he must have learned the behaviour from a human role model. Benji’s owner was quick to deny culpability: 

“He certainly didn’t pick up the habit from me,” said 35-year-old Petr Hlabovic defensively. 

I hope they’ll search Hlabovic’s house for incriminating evidence before accepting his denial. I’ve often heard rumours of knicker-collecting men, who display their stolen artefacts as trophies to their beer-guzzling buddies. The home of such a brigand would be a highly corrupting environment for a kangaroo.

A more innocent explanation is that Benji was influenced by what he saw on TV. Kangaroos are impressionable creatures, and I believe that re-runs of The Benny Hill show are popular in the Czech Republic. Who could blame Benji for mimicking the antics of a pie-faced buffoon who gets cheap laughs by ogling busty women? He simply wouldn’t have known any better. 

The kindest thing to do with Benji now would be to send him back to his native land. Australians are a patriotic bunch, and have a notably relaxed attitude to knicker-theft and other larrikin pranks. I would expect them to welcome Benji home as a returning hero and present him with a harem of females for his (and their) amusement. Bush nookie is a popular pastime in that part of the world. 

One émigré animal who certainly shouldn’t be repatriated is Nico the gorilla, who petulantly tossed away the flowers he was given on his 50th birthday, and greedily wolfed down the fruit cake he later received. A gorilla that spoiled wouldn’t last five minutes in Africa. If I ever dared to pour scorn on a gift from my females I’d be walking with a limp for the next three months. 

It has to be said that humans are not always astute in their choice of presents. Back in my circus days, I remember getting a silk necktie for my birthday from the female acrobats. 

“I’m sure I shall find an excellent use for it,” I said to the girls. 

“You’re supposed to wear it around your neck,” they explained. 

“Yes, I believe that’s what a man would do with it,” I replied. “We gorillas are not so conventional in our use of ornamental textiles.” 

I initially considered wearing around my chest as a nipple protector, but soon realised that such an application would be pointless. A gorilla’s nipples are pretty secure at the worst of times, and I’ve not met the human who would dare to pinch them without prior consent. 

I eventually settled on using it as a line to hang pot plants on. This was a great success, allowing me to cultivate an impressive range of herbs and medicinal narcotics. As we say in the jungle: if it can’t be used in horticulture, you may as well give it to the crocodiles. 

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