Christmas tree

The manager of the safari camp was terribly disappointed when the Australian Jesus declined his offer of a free holiday in the Congo. I heard the fellow make his excuses on the speakerphone in the manager’s office:

“Screw you, mate!” he snapped. “I’ve cut my hair and shaved my beard so that bastards like you will leave me alone!”

I naturally did what I could to console the manager, who looked rather crestfallen after this ungrateful outburst.

“I don’t think the guests would have liked him,” I said. “Jesus was a baby at Christmas, so it wouldn’t have suited the nativity theme. Why not get your wife to play Mary instead? She’s always telling me how much she misses being a virgin.”

“I’ve got a better idea: why don’t you play King Herod?” retorted the manager. “He obviously modelled himself on a gorilla.”

“You’re only saying that because he had hair growing out of nostrils” I replied. “This is not, in fact, a gorilla trait. Look at my nose.”

It goes without saying that we gorillas have nothing in common with King Herod, a man so evil that he died of a disease called Herod’s Evil. It is said that he suffered an agonising death, with maggots breeding in his todger. Serves him right for being such a blackguard, I suppose.

I’ve always liked the nativity story, mainly because of the prominent role played by animals. There were cows and goats in the stable, sheep in the pastures outside, and three wise apes to provide post-natal care. The species of each ape can be deduced from the gifts they brought. The bearer of gold must have been a vulgar orang-utan who thought bling was a suitable present for a baby. Myrrh was used as an aphrodisiac by the ancients, which suggests the involvement of a randy chimp. And a thoughtful gorilla must have brought the frankincense, which being an air-freshener would have been sorely needed in the stable.

The person I feel sorry for is Joseph, who got a pretty raw deal when you consider the facts:

1. Marries a virgin but isn’t allowed to have sex with her.

2. Gets cuckolded by God, whose child he is forced to bring up.

3. Busts his hump making tables and chairs while his adopted son plays hooky doing miracles and stuff.

On the plus side, he doesn’t get crucified and acquires a nifty collection of oil lamps.

This being the season of goodwill, I should end by offering words of heartfelt sympathy to the broken-hearted. One who might appreciate them is the Indian man now living in a tree after catching his wife fornicating with a local lover-boy. He won’t come down until his wife apologises, which she has stubbornly refused to do.

“If this is how humans behave, I’m going to live like a monkey,” he told the police when they asked him what he was up to.

I feel your pain, my friend. If you wish to continue your simian pilgrimage in the Congo, I’ll reserve a sturdy tree for you.

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Reaching Nirvana

So Nirvana have asked Paul McCartney to be their lead singer. A shrewd move. Whatever you say about Paul, he’s not going to kill himself like that drug addict who used to be their front man. He might die of natural causes, of course, but such is the fate of all mortal men. I hope they tape a device to his chest to monitor his vital signs when he’s performing. For a Beatle to die on stage would be more than the world could bear. Even to contemplate such a tragedy makes me howl with anguish.

I have a bet with the manager of the safari camp that Paul will outlive Mick Jagger. He thinks Mick is healthier because of the way he prances about on stage, but I know better. No man ever lived to the age of 100 by having ants in his pants. The secret of longevity is a serene mental outlook combined with the avoidance of physical jerks. Jagger falls short in both departments, which is why he’s as wrinkly as a prune. He won’t be able to keep it up for much longer. (Behaving like a hyperactive rooster, I mean.)

It’s an interesting fact of human biology that women live longer than men. That’s why old women greatly outnumber old men. People sometimes ask me whether evil old witches like Rider Haggard’s Gagool are common in Africa. The answer is no. Any woman half as wicked as Gagool would be thrown to the crocodiles before she got to middle age. Old ladies in Africa are wonderfully benign and sometimes have the power of prophesy. One such ancient seeress held me in her arms when I was a baby gorilla.

“Thine eyes are bright, my little hairy one!” she crooned in an obscure Congolese dialect. “I foretell thou shall migrate to a northern land and acquire human language and learning; whereupon thou shall join a great carnival and entertain the multitude in many ways, including the kicketh of clowns in the arse; after which thou shall return to the jungle with a tidy fortune to invest in the safari business; and thenceforth shall thou enjoy a life of much leisure, japing and whimsical banter.”

Needless to say, her prophesy was 100% accurate in every particular. I often visit her grave, which I decorate with scented African violets and banana peel.

Now, why do women live longer than men? The answer is testosterone, by which I mean the lack of it. In addition to making men frisky, this naughty hormone has various deleterious effects on health, which shortens the average male lifespan. This has been verified by a study showing that eunuchs live longer than men with their goolies intact.

I don’t suppose Paul McCartney will be interested in using this knowledge to prolong his own life. His attractive new wife has plenty of mileage in her for one thing. But wouldn’t the sacrifice of an ageing nutsack be a price worth paying to delay the death of another Beatle? I’m not saying anyone should force him, but he ought to consider it seriously.

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Revenge of the lipstick lesbians

Some good-looking lesbians have made a video threatening to marry the boyfriends of women who oppose gay marriage. They are supremely confident of their ability to carry out this insidious threat, believing they have qualities that men dream of in a wife. I don’t know whether their bravado is justified, but they certainly made some very persuasive arguments in the video. Women with eligible boyfriends would be well advised to keep their opposition to gay marriage between them and their shrinks.

When the manager of the safari camp saw the video his eyes lit up.

“Do you think they’d have an affair with a man whose wife was against gay marriage?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t know my wife’s position on the issue, but I might be able to convince her it’s not a good idea.”

“Cuckolding married women who would deny them their rights is entirely consistent with their strategic outlook,” I replied. “But it might not be advisable for you to encourage them, given your wife’s propensity for sadistic revenge.”

“Good point,” said the manager glumly.

Whether or not one approves of punishing a woman for her reactionary views on gay marriage, I don’t think the lesbians have thought this one through. Their proposed plan of action is a classic example of cutting one’s nose to spite one’s face. A woman whose boyfriend jilts her for a lesbian would certainly be humiliated and quite possibly heartbroken. But in time she would get over it and find another suitor. There aren’t enough lesbians in the world to steal the boyfriend of every heterosexual woman who lacks sympathy for their cause.

The fate of the avenger, by comparison, is far more intractable. She would be lumbered with an unwanted husband who would insist on sleeping with her. Switching off the lights, as the girls in the video suggest, would not be an effective remedy if the fellow made obscene and triumphalist remarks while exercising his conjugal rights. I fear that such conduct is far from unlikely in a man who would impose himself on a lesbian.

For all their feisty eloquence, these lesbian ladies have yet to master the art of delivering a credible ultimatum. There’s no point threatening to do something contrary to your own nature and ambitions. You don’t make your enemies back down by promising to blow your brains out on their carpet. What they should have said was “If you continue to vote against our right to marry, we will put on our strap-ons and chase you into the nearest cathouse.” The prospect of being pursued by a swarm of agitated lesbians intent on ravishment should persuade most women to reconsider their views.

As a gorilla, I am all in favour of giving lesbians everything they want. The appropriate response to a lesbian insurrection is unconditional surrender. Let them marry, wear trousers and wrestle with crocodiles if they want to. The lesbians of the Earth should roam free and wild as Nature intended. Preserving such wonders enriches the ecosystem.

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Nanny goose

I have tremendous sympathy for Gavin Rossdale, the rock musician who was photographed patting a woman’s behind. He was following the young lady as she carried his son through the brush, a task which she performed in her capacity as the nanny. Perhaps he should have carried the child himself, in his capacity as the father, but the nanny seemed quite happy to do the job. If you hire a tall, blond Nordic woman to look after your children, you may as well get your money’s worth.

Nasty internet gossips have been sniggering at him for getting caught in the act, and gleefully speculating about his wife’s reaction to the incident. I sincerely hope she takes it in her stride. Having studied the picture carefully, it’s obvious to me that he was nudging the nanny along rather than caressing her shapely posterior. No husband should be sent to the doghouse for doing something equivalent to saying “giddy up, horsey!” – not even if the horse is an attractive filly with a first-class rump.

I’m not ashamed to admit having a soft spot for nannies. (This soft spot, I should stress, is not located in an erogenous zone. We silverbacks do not hanker for human females.) What I like about nannies is the job they do. I have nothing but admiration for a woman who nurtures someone else’s children – it projects an image that is warm, maternal and potentially bosomy. I don’t know whether this is true of the Nordic nanny, but her relaxed attitude to butt-patting suggests she’s a tactile woman who’s comfortable with physical contact. I am optimistic about her career prospects.

On the subject of tactile women, I was fascinated to hear about a 29-year-old single mother who cuddles men for a living. It makes her $260 a day, which she is using to put herself through college. Her clients are permitted to snuggle up in bed with her, provided that they put aside any thoughts of hanky panky. A lot of men are capable of doing this, particularly when they reach the age of 100.

What this shows is that the human male still yearns for a nanny when he is supposedly an adult. One might conjecture, with great plausibility, that a lot of wives are effectively their husbands’ nannies. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, is married to a woman who cooks for him, cleans for him, and gives him a bath when he’s good. It’s a wonderful arrangement, providing all the comforts of childhood with the conjugal perks thrown in. 

Happy is the man whose wife is his nanny.

I hope you like this proverb, which belongs in a book of wise sayings. Does it imply that men who don’t have nanny-wives must be miserable? Not at all. I would never make such a categorical assertion. A man can surely attain the heights of bliss by marrying his housekeeper, chiropodist or masseuse. There are many worthy occupations a woman can follow to bring succour to her husband.

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Police harassment

What’s wrong with the police? The more resources they get, the more determined they are to pester harmless eccentrics. I bit my toe in amazement when I heard about a Swedish woman who was arrested for allegedly having sex with a skeleton. The police say she stole it, but how can a skeleton be private property? I would argue its legal status is similar to that of a stray cat – anyone who provides it with a good home is entitled to claim it as their own.

Now the police say they have evidence that she licked its skull. This in itself is a gross violation of her privacy. No woman should have to worry about being prosecuted whenever she gets her tongue out. As for the act in question, one shouldn’t automatically assume that her motive was sexual. I’ve seen animals licking all sorts of stuff to acquire essential nutrients. Maybe the woman was suffering from a mineral deficiency. We gorillas often lick things out of sheer curiosity. Taste can be an important clue in sizing up a mysterious object.

Even if the woman was trying to seduce the skeleton, I don’t see that as a crime. Who was the victim? Certainly not the skeleton, which should have been flattered that a flesh-and-blood woman wanted to jump its bones. It was once part of a living human itself, so it must have been familiar with all the standard positions and techniques. A skeleton is mature enough to handle a physical relationship without the law intervening to give it protection.

Another recent example of overzealous policing occurred in Seattle, where a man was arrested for indecent exposure. The only people he indecently exposed himself to were the police themselves, who rudely interrupted him while he was masturbating in an alley. When the officers ordered him to stop, he said “Wait until I’m finished”. This indicates he was focusing on the job in hand rather than indulging in exhibitionism. I can’t understand why the police refused his reasonable request. A prisoner with unfinished business is bound to be more jumpy.

Let me state, for the record, that I’m no fan of public masturbation. On too many occasions have insolent baboons looked me in the eye while stroking their plonkers. Yet I always allowed them to consummate the deed before giving their arses a good kicking. Insults from baboons must always be avenged, but there’s no point punishing them when they’re in a state of heightened sexual tension.

If I were a police commissioner, I’d make all my officers watch episodes of Colombo as part of their basic training. The dishevelled detective never made a big hoo-hah about people bonking skeletons or masturbating in public. He ignored the small fry and went for the big fish. He was also a fine conversationalist and unfailingly polite, which are qualities to be encouraged in a law enforcer. I suspect today’s policemen are more like the foul-mouthed character played by Harvey Keitel in Bad Lieutenant, who practised many ugly vices. He was also a colossal wanker.

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Tongue penance

I was shocked to hear news of an Indian man who cut off his tongue in a futile attempt to persuade his wife to come back home. It seems he had abused her with insults so vile that she packed her bags and left with their young child. He then tried to make amends by removing the offensive organ, but his wife has yet to respond to his gesture of remorse. Let’s hope she does something more dignified than clapping her hands and dancing a jig.

I have to admit that I’ve never seen a living creature cut off its own tongue. It must be the damnedest thing. Can you imagine the willpower and dexterity required to keep your tongue stuck out while attempting to sever it with a sharp implement? Someone should invent a miniature guillotine that could slice it off cleanly without all the yanking and hacking of a manual excision.

As an act of atonement, what he did was worthless. There’s no point blaming your tongue for the sins of your mind. His wife must be less likely than ever to make up with him now. I don’t suppose they were into French kissing and oral sex in a big way, but there are other aggravations for a woman with a tongueless husband. Having to answer all the phone-calls and haggle with street vendors might test her patience. And interrogating her husband about his activities would be impossible unless they both learned sign language.

I hope this will be a lesson to all men who are abandoned by their wives for engaging in malicious banter. Amputating your tongue won’t win her back. If you want to show contrition, put on a gimp costume with a ball-gag and give your wife the key. Nothing says sorry like putting your fate in the hands of the person you offended.

As one marriage ends prematurely, another one continues beyond the grave. I refer to the Serbian woman who gave instructions for a likeness of her vagina to be carved on her grave to discourage her husband from pursuing other women. Before dismissing her as a crazy old bat, have a look at the engraving on her headstone (picture below). If it’s an accurate depiction, she had a remarkably handsome vulva with pleasing floral symmetry. I doubt her husband will find another woman with a coochie so cute.

The problem, of course, is that looks aren’t everything where sexual organs are concerned. No man ever satisfied his urges by admiring a beautiful vagina. This Serbian widower may have fond memories of his wife’s snatch, but when push comes to shove he’ll want something more inviting than an etching on a tombstone. Visiting the grave will just make him yearn for the real thing.

Is he worried that his wife will haunt him, as happened to the butcher in Fiddler on the Roof? He shouldn’t be. Ghosts can’t do a thing when a man and woman are horizontal. They just float around frustratedly, looking for something to blow on.

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China syndrome

I can’t understand why a Chinese airline has introduced a smelly armpit test for its pilots. Hainan Airlines will not allow anyone with a malodorous underarm to fly its jets. Why in the name of Confucius did they not introduce this test for the flight attendants, who unlike the pilots actually mingle with the passengers? All too often, my blameless olfactory organ has been offended by human body odours while travelling in a commercial jet. These unwelcome aromas were usually emitted by the cabin crew, extending their arms to open overhead lockers or leaning across my seat for no good reason.

It is possible, of course, that Chinese pilots make a habit of hobnobbing with the passengers. I remember being accosted by one such character on a flight from Hong Kong to Taipei – he burst out of the cockpit when the plane had reached cruising altitude:

“Ho! GB!” he exclaimed. “Tell me about your life in jungle. You gorillas always fucking eh? Haha!”

“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I asked.

“No worry about that!” he replied jovially. “Autopilot fly plane and co-pilot keep eye on everything. Unless he playing with his dick! Haha!”

“That’s all well and good, but I’d rather you were in the cockpit doing your job,” I said. “After we land, I’ll be more than happy to grant you an interview.”

So he returned to his post, muttering something in Cantonese which I could not translate.  

I shouldn’t give you the impression that I view the Chinese as ninnies, because they’re coming up with some brilliant innovations that ought to be copied in the West. One such idea is the angry room, invented by restaurant owner Zhou Jun, which is a place where staff can abuse pictures of their boss. It is hoped this will defuse their pent-up frustrations and diminish the urge to empty a pot of hot soup over Mr Zhou’s head. Note the pragmatic attitude of Chinese bosses, who don’t mind being hated as long as their workers are happy and productive.

The nearest thing to the anger room in the West is the Justin Bieber sex doll, an amazingly lifelike replica produced specifically for men who have “issues” with Justin. It’s a sad fact that Bieber’s macho persona makes a lot of guys feel puny and worthless, disabling their capacity to engage in manly pastimes. Some of them react to their low self-esteem by wearing ladies’ underwear. Others experiment with butt plugs. It is thought that acquiring an effigy of their bête noire (and sodomising it at leisure) will enable them to rediscover their sense of self-worth. This will allow them to return to their ranches and lumber yards to explore their virility with renewed vigour. 

Speaking as a gorilla who would pose no threat to Justin if we met in a dark alley, I welcome this attempt to deflect the animosity he inspires. Any invention that prevents Bieber from getting buggered is worth its weight in gold.

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Mother's milk

I’ve been studying photos of Alicia Richman, the Texas mother who donated 87 gallons of her breast milk to charity. She is nothing like the buxom matron I imagined her to be. Her figure, indeed, is remarkably svelte. It just goes to show that you can’t judge a dairy by the size of its cows. If the herd is contented, the milk will flow freely.

It all makes sense when you think about it. A woman who copiously secretes a creamy substance from her nipples has a fool-proof method of eliminating surplus body fat. Donating milk could be the next big thing for the health and fitness industry. Feel like having an extra helping of dessert? Go right ahead. Just remember to give your breasts an extra pumping in the morning.

Mrs Richman’s remarkable outflow has been recognised as a Guinness world record. She credits this achievement to her rigorous milking regime:

“I pumped at work, on vacations, in the car. And I never had to buy formula.”

Is it my imagination, or is there something weirdly obsessive about her behaviour? Anyone would think that having a white fluid sucked out of your body was enjoyable. One struggles to think of a precedent.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about Mrs Richman, he frowned and shook his head.

“I pity her husband,” he said. “He must worry about getting squirted in the eye whenever he fondles her boobs.”

This concern seemed exaggerated to me.

“Isn’t it possible to caress a woman’s breasts without squeezing them like udders?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “You haven’t done them justice unless you grope them firmly and suck them too. What’s he supposed to do if milk starts pouring into his mouth?”

“Drink it?” I suggested.

“Ugh!” grunted the manager. “I’d rather drink dishwater!”

I thanked the manager for sharing his perspectives and bade him a good day. It’s odd that he had such strong feelings of revulsion for Mrs Richman’s milk. I suppose he holds old-fashioned views about a man’s right to enjoy his wife’s jahoobies without being sabotaged by unwanted lactation.

Interestingly enough, a book has recently been published which claims that men are attracted women’s breasts because of subconscious memories of being suckled in their infancy. The authors argue that baby boys get such a high from the hormones in their mother’s milk that they spend the rest of their lives trying to recreate it. It’s a cute theory, but logic compels me to dismiss it as hogwash. Babies are clueless little critters who just want to be fed and protected. They don’t know the difference between a tit and a teddy bear.

The true explanation of why men find breasts attractive was given by Desmond Morris, the primatologist of Naked Ape fame. It’s because of the uncanny resemblance that a lady’s chest cleavage bears to a pert pair of buttocks. And why are buttocks sexy, I hear you ask? The answer is simple. Because they are buttocks.

 

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Human and other procreation

A survey indicates that an increasing number of women are marrying beneath them. Not beneath them in stature, which would be rather comical, but beneath them in education and income. As a gorilla, I see this as a healthy development. I don’t like the idea of clever women breeding with clever men to produce a hyper-intelligent race of humans who think the sun shines out of their bottoms. The whole point of sexual reproduction is to mix up the genes, so that strengths offset weaknesses and vice versa. That’s why it’s better to choose a mate who complements rather than duplicates.

I can see the lifestyle advantages for the woman as well. A hot-shot lawyer needs a husband who’s happy to paint the shed and mow the lawn while she’s making the big bucks. The last thing she wants is a spouse with joint control of the purse-strings who will query every item on her charge card. There’s also the question of sexual attraction. I can well imagine that many educated women are bored of geeky guys and secretly pine for a farm boy who will carry them upstairs and ravish them with his boots on.

Even we silverbacks are not immune from such strange hankerings. I remember being approached by an intellectual lady back in my circus days – I think she was a reader in feminist studies.

“Carry me off to your tree-house, you big hairy beast!” she panted huskily.

“Madam,” I replied, “what you propose is unnatural, uncomfortable and anatomically dangerous. Kindly address your demands to the big hairy beasts of your own species.”

Yet in spite of such fetishes, humans have been remarkably successful at reproducing. That’s why it annoys me when they complain about other species  multiplying fruitfully, often calling them “pests”.

A good example of such is the German raccoon, brought into the country in 1934 by Hermann Goering. It must be emphasized that these raccoons had no affiliation with the Nazi Party or sympathy for the tenets of National Socialism. Quite to the contrary, in fact. Once they realised they had been settled in Germany as a quarry species, they joined the resistance and carried out daring raids on hen houses and granaries. This did not stop the post-war German State unjustly describing them as “Nazi raccoons”, and subjecting them to repeated culls in an attempt (thankfully futile) to eradicate them.

The good news is that the German authorities have finally renounced their persecution of these brave and resourceful creatures:

"The raccoon is firmly established in Germany, this has to be accepted,” said Daniel Hoffman of the German Hunting Federation.

The next step is to rehabilitate them politically, so they are recognised as victims of the Nazi regime rather than collaborators. Perhaps then selfish German householders will stop complaining when the raccoons shelter in their homes during a cold snap and borrow a few provisions. Given that most Germans are fat-asses who eat too much, the raccoons are doing them a favour. 

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A rump of royal renown

Princess Pippa, sister of England’s future queen, is bemoaning the fact that her bum is more popular than she is:

“It is a bit startling to achieve global recognition on account of your bottom,” she said.

Show a little gratitude, young lady. Your beloved butt has won you a book contract and a free dress from Stella McCartney. Not since Jenny Seagrove moved in with Michael Winner has a celebrity arse opened so many doors.

There is nothing wrong with having a famous behind. The average gorilla’s rump is more recognisable than his face. Not true of me, of course. My face became so well-known in my circus career that my arse got jealous of it:

“Why can’t I be the most popular part of your body like other gorillas’ arses?” it moaned.

“Because I am not like other gorillas,” I replied. “Be proud that you are an important member of the Bananas team. I could not succeed without your support, especially when I’m sitting down.”

My arse took comfort from my words and ceased its pathetic whining.

As for Pippa, I’m willing to bet that her boyfriend pays far more attention to her peachy posterior than he did before it became famous. He must spend hours rubbing his face against it and giving it the occasional smooch. Does he still spank it? I’m not sure, to be honest. It’s the first question I’d ask Pippa if we met.

A young gorilla once asked me why humans have no hair on their bottoms.

“Have you been watching internet porn?” I growled.

“Yes, GB,” he replied with downcast eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

“Because you have been honest, I will answer your question,” I said. “Humans have naked rumps so they can sweat more easily. Unlike us gorillas, they are constantly running from place to place to escape predators and train for the Olympics. This makes their arses very hot, which must then perspire to lose heat.”

“What does human sweat taste like?” asked the young ape.

“How should I know?” I replied. “Some say it is salty and acrid. But you must never lick a human bottom, which is an ignoble act in their culture and ours. Although bottom-lickers often prosper in human society, they are not respected and have no honour. Many of them work in show business management.”

Now you’re probably thinking that the advice I gave that youngster was an oversimplification. I admit it’s quite likely that licking Pippa’s arse would be seen as an achievement of great distinction in today’s world. The arse-licker might well become a celebrity in his own right, with the tabloids publishing pictures of him sticking out his tongue.

The point at issue, however, is what the judgement of history will be. Being the man who licked Pippa’s butt will sound a lot less impressive in the 24th century, when cadets at the Star Fleet academy are taking their exams. A wise man thinks about his place in history before licking the sweat off a tasty-looking tush.

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Skyfallen

I’m trying not to get excited about the new James Bond film. Not because I want to appear cool and blasé, but because the movie won’t be shown in the Congo until well into 2013. A prematurely excited gorilla is an undesirable phenomenon in a finely tuned ecosystem. It puts the other gorillas on edge, which can lead to bushes being abused and uprooted.

Longstanding readers of this blog will know that Danny Craig is one of my protégés. He offered to send me a pirate DVD of the movie, but I declined his generous offer:

“You mustn’t violate the copyright just to curry favour with me, Danny,” I said. “I’ll be satisfied with a lock of Naomie Harris’s pubic hair.”

I was joking, of course. A big hairy ape like me has no interest in human tufts.

Film reviewers have been counting the scenes in which Danny takes off his shirt. When a movie magazine asked him whether he minded displaying his chest like a hunk of meat, his response was phlegmatic:

“I don't care how many times I have to do it,” he said, adding: “It's going to be harder and harder the older I get.”

Sad but true. Those perfectly-toned pecs will eventually morph into man boobs, making Danny look like a transvestite on hormone therapy. I advised him to delay the inevitable by stimulating his chest muscles with electric shocks, but unfortunately he’s too squeamish. Only real secret agents can bear having electrodes attached to their bosoms.

The manager of the safari camp is always pestering me with his ideas for the Bond movies. I think he hopes I’ll pass them on to Danny. His latest brainwave is that James Bond should have a nubile sister who appears in the films:

“There ought to be a woman you can fantasize about without having to compete with 007,” he explained.

“Wouldn’t Bond get annoyed if someone shagged his sister?” I asked.

“Not unless he was a total hypocrite,” said the manager. “And besides, why would his sister give a damn about what he thought? She’d be a strong enough character to sleep with anyone she fancied and tell her brother to butt out.”

He might be on to something, but who would be suitable for the part? Obviously, she’d have to be a big name in her own right. Jessica Bond isn’t a role for an aspiring starlet, no matter how impressive her vital statistics. After gently racking my brains, I thought of Christina Aguilera, who has recently won acclaim for her ability to function without knickers:

“I don’t like wearing underwear,” she said on a chat show. “I like to be as free as possible at all times. It’s just who I am. It’s empowering. It’s pussy power!”

How fitting it would be for a fearless commando like James Bond to have a sister who fearlessly goes commando herself. Pussy power is also perfect for the part. I’d be tempted to give Christina the role without an audition and let the director worry about her acting skills.

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Too many vaginas

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Superbug

Scientists have discovered the fossil remains of a hyperintelligent woodlouse.

“No one would have expected such an advanced brain would have evolved so early in the history of multicellular organisms,” said an awestruck professor from Arizona.

The big unanswered question in why this brainy bug became extinct, whereas really stupid ones like the daddy-long-legs have survived to the present, entering buildings of their own free will and then crashing into walls like utter cretins as if someone had imprisoned them there. Could the woodlouse have been too intellectual for life in primeval earth, wasting its time playing chess and solving crossword puzzles instead of working out in the gym? Its brilliant brain wouldn’t have helped it escape from a big hairy spider – instead of running like hell it would have overanalysed the situation, making it an easy target. It reminds me of the nerdy doctors and lawyers who play paintball with regular Joes and get splattered from head to toe.

It’s probably just as well the woodlouse isn’t around today. The complex world of homo sapiens would be an ideal environment for it to thrive as a master criminal. A clever little bug could make its first billion by crawling into a mainframe computer and diverting funds to its offshore account. After that, it could run its criminal empire from a secret headquarters underneath a rock, sending out hit squads of killer cockroaches to eliminate its rivals and blackmail politicians. Pretty soon, all the aspiring hoodlums and gangsters would be paying homage to “The Woodfather”, pledging their loyalty by kissing the ring on its antenna.

Someone in dire need of a woodlouse brain is the man who made a scene at a restaurant because Richard Gere was flirting with his wife. The woman, a stunning blonde with melon-shaped breasts, was apparently “confused” when Gere started whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I don’t blame her. She must have been wondering whether he’d mistaken her for a man.

The husband reacted to the situation by growling at Gere like a cave man and chasing him out of the restaurant. He should have realised that film stars of Gere’s age are impotent – quite incapable of getting it up unless they’re primed with a cocktail of aphrodisiacs and strangled with a leather belt. Gere looks especially burned out to me. My considered assessment is that his libido matches that of an ageing slug. He may still have enough slime to flatter a woman with his well-trained tongue, but a man who has nothing but tongue can only go so far.

If The Woodfather were alive today, it would probably appoint Gere as its palace eunuch. It’s a job that perfectly matches his skill set. He could reprise his role in Pretty Woman by flirting with any prostitutes the woodlouse had hired for its own pleasure. That’s not something the hookers would mind too much. Being sweet-talked by Gere would put them in the perfect frame of mind to have a bug crawl under their skirts. 

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Lesbian of the Year

As 2012 draws closer to its close, my thoughts inevitably turn to the Lesbian of the Year award. This prestigious title is usually won by a woman from the USA, where talented sapphists have excelled in show business, sport and prison security. The greasy pole got a lot less greasy for American lesbians after Ellen Degeneres wrapped her sinewy thighs around it and hoisted herself up to the giddy heights. This year might be different, however. There is a very strong contender from the Far East called Gigi Chao, a 33-year-old Chinese heiress who recently got married to an older woman of mannish appearance.

Gigi’s father, a billionaire tycoon from Hong Kong, not only refused to acknowledge her same-sex marriage but offered $65 million dollars to any man who could win his daughter’s hand.

"Gigi is a very good woman with both talents and looks,” wrote Papa Chao in his advertisement. “She is devoted to her parents, is generous and does volunteer work."

Gigi was then inundated with emails from eager suitors who had apparently fallen madly in love with her picture.

How would an impartial observer characterise Mr Chao’s behaviour? When I asked a professional woman at the safari guesthouse, she compared him unfavourably with a pustule on a scrotum. I don’t disagree with her assessment. Gigi would have been within her rights to tell her dad to go and fuck a goat, but her public reaction was anything but. When invited by a newspaper to comment, she said:

"At first I was entertained by it, and then that entertainment turned into the realisation and conviction that I am a really lucky girl to have such a loving daddy, because it's really sweet of him to do something like this as an expression of his fatherly love.”

Did you ever hear of such an understanding daughter? Truly, she must be a saint to have responded in such a way. Papa Chao is a lucky old coot to have such a dutiful child. He ought to build a $65 million temple to the Yellow Emperor as thanks for his good fortune rather than trying to bribe a gold-digger to get in his daughter’s pants.

It’s possible, of course, that Gigi was praising her father to preserve an outward show of family harmony. For all we know, she may be cursing him in private. Even if this were true, she would still have my admiration. A public spat between family members is an ugly and depressing spectacle. The Jerry Springer Show gives me the shits, so I only watch it when I’m constipated.

I should mention, in passing, that I’ve never fought with another gorilla when a human was present. Whenever we expect a visit from one of our hairless cousins, I ask my females to air their grievances before the guest arrives so they can vent any pent-up frustrations. Sometimes I get a few bites and punches; sometimes I get sat on for half an hour. It’s a small price to pay to avoid losing face in front of a human.

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Bosom brew

The manager of the safari camp got annoyed when I asked him whether he’d be guzzling a new range of alcoholic beverages from Germany. The innovation in the distilling process is to pour the liquor over the breasts of “glamour models” before bottling it.

“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” he huffed. “There’s no such thing as tit-flavoured booze and I’m not paying a hundred dollars for a bottle of vodka because it's been spilled over some bimbo's boobs!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much!” I thought before replying. “Do calm down, manager, I was only asking. I never thought a connoisseur of your calibre would be fooled by such a gimmick. I’m sure you wouldn’t buy their vodka if they let you suck it off the breasts.”

The manager rubbed his chin and cogitated before replying: “I doubt you could suck two fingers off a woman’s chest,” he said. “And you definitely couldn’t drink it in one swig. But I might pay the price of a single if they asked me nicely.”

“That’s very generous of you,” I remarked. “And thank you for sharing your expertise on this vital subject.”

The manager may well be right that only a fool would buy these spirits, but that’s hardly a fatal flaw in the business model. There are many fools in the world, and some of them will surely pay extra for alcohol that’s rinsed the rack of a nubile woman. Can we be certain, furthermore, that the dumpling-dowsing has no effect on the taste? I’d like to hear the verdict of a professional taster before coming to a firm conclusion.

Even if the liquor is chemically unaltered, it might well taste different to a man who knows where it’s been. Taste is a complex sensation affected by neurons firing in different centres of the brain. Back in my circus days, there was a clown who used to have a plate of sausages and beans while watching Benny Hill on TV. He said the beans tasted divine if he ate them when the bald fellow was getting head-slapped. As for the sausages, he saved them for the dolly-bird chase at the end. The taste of anything depends on the mood you’re in. I find bananas most appetising when I’m lying in my hammock watching the sun set; but they’re practically inedible if I’m sitting on a rock watching baboons mate.

None of this means I have any intention of sampling the bosom booze. We gorillas shun intoxicants that might make us foolish and cause us to behave like the crazy gibbon. I do wonder, nevertheless, whether the same idea could be extended to other foods. Would it be possible, for example, to insert a hen’s egg inside a woman’s birth canal so she could re-lay it? Perhaps it’s the sort of thing Lady Gaga might attempt if someone put the idea into her head. I should imagine a carton of her freshly laid eggs would fetch a handsome price in the market.

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Would you eat this woman?

Her name is Clarissa 'The Fat Lady' and you don’t have to answer my question. I pose it purely because Brian May, the guitarist and ex-Queen, has advocated tucking into her flesh. Not because he thinks she’s tasty, I should hasten to add. His gastronomic advice was a response to her suggestion than humans should eat badgers, a species for which his affection is unbounded. I suppose he thinks people who’ve eaten Clarissa would have little appetite left for furry woodland creatures. She’s certainly got enough meat on her, although one fears it may be on the tough side.

Much as I admire Brian’s passion for the cause, I do have reservations about his tactics. Frankly, I don’t think telling people to eat fat ladies will gain much traction. The heyday of human cannibalism is long past. Names like Sawney Bean and Malietoa Uilamatu will echo through history as reminders of a golden age when men chopped up their enemies and put them into cooking pots. The humans of today have far weaker stomachs than those man-eating titans. Few will even consider eating each other unless they’re close to starvation.

I’m not convinced that championing the rights of badgers is good tactics either. From what I’ve heard, they are bad-tempered varmints who will happily make a meal of any critter that crosses their path. He who lives by the fang shall die by the fang. Why not campaign on behalf of cows and sheep instead? All they do is eat grass and look stupid. No one ever died from getting a stupid look.

In truth, I wonder whether pop stars do more harm than good for the causes they support. Look at that fellow Sting. He was supposed to be saving the rainforest at one time, but soon got side-tracked into tantric sex and other fatuous pastimes. As a result, people began to see the rainforest as one of his fads rather than an entity worthy of salvation. And why the hell does he call himself 'Sting' anyway? There's nothing cool about a painful prick that shoots out of a bee's arse.

Admittedly Brian May is a cut above Sting, having acquired a first degree in astrophysics and a PhD in guitar-string maintenance. The man is clearly an intellectual, and we surely have him to thank for words like ‘Gallileo’, ‘Figaro’ and ‘Fandango’ appearing in 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Yet all this erudition doesn’t make him an expert on badgers, ecology or the eating of fat ladies.

The only way of getting accurate information on zoological topics is to consult an unsentimental naturalist who writes down what he sees in his notebook. The role model I have in mind is Dr George Murray Levick, a member of Captain Scott’s ill-fated expedition to the South Pole. He observed the mating habits of penguins and was shocked by the orgy of debauchery, necrophilia and buggery he witnessed. That didn’t stop him writing it all down though. Never become an animal’s advocate until you know all its dirty secrets.

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Disposable waste

I notice a spate of incidents in which sex dolls have been rescued from rivers and oceans. One presumes they were dumped there by their owners. Is it possible that men who buy sex dolls grow bored or disenchanted with their company? I find the idea quite upsetting.

I discussed this ugly development with the manager of the safari camp.

“Couldn’t they have offered them for sale on eBay rather than callously disposing of them in that fashion?” I asked.

“What makes you think anyone would want to buy a second-hand sex doll?” he replied. “If I ever bought one I’d want her to be a virgin.”

“You might be disappointed,” I said. “I’m fairly certain they’re tested in the factory before being shipped to customers.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the manager. “I pity the poor fool who has that job! I wonder if his wife gets jealous – if he has a wife.”

“Why would she mind unless he brought his work home with him?” I said. “Would your wife be jealous if you copulated with a sex doll?”

“Yes,” answered the manager.

I didn’t argue the point. He knows his wife better than I do and presumably has reasons for his belief.

I personally think it should be a crime to treat sex dolls like garbage. They may not have feelings, but they possess a stoic dignity that ought to be respected. The fact that they were mistaken for real women before being rescued from drowning shows how beautifully crafted the latest models are. The virginity issue is nonsense, of course. I’m sure they’re as good as new after a thorough douching.

Some of you might be wondering whether I own shares in a company that manufactures sex dolls. I am happy to answer your question. Yes, I do. I once asked the directors, at the annual general meeting, why we didn’t make dolls that looked like famous actresses or pop stars. They said the women would sue us. When I suggested asking them for permission, everyone just laughed.

One female celebrity who might agree to have a sex doll made in her likeness is Lady Gaga. She prides herself on being unconventional and “out there”, so maybe she’d take it as a compliment. Her latest avant garde exploit was to be photographed naked on the toilet. She claims she did it to highlight the eating disorders she endured in her adolescence. I don’t quite see the connection unless she suffered from constipation.

What fascinates me is how small the toilet bowl is compared with Miss Gaga’s bottom. I’m sure this isn’t because her bottom is particularly big. My theory is that she will only sit on small toilets because of a morbid fear of falling into the bowl. Maybe she did actually fall in when she was a little girl, and now has a phobia.

I admit the above is pure speculation on my part; but if I’m right, she ought to have plenty of sympathy for sex dolls that get dumped in the sea.

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A positive post

I got an email from someone accusing me of using this blog as a vehicle for ridicule and heartless mockery.

“You’re always having a go at someone.” he wrote. “Why can’t you be positive for a change?”

I could have responded to this complaint by mentioning all the humans I’ve praised, a list which includes Dian Fossey and the cast of Star Trek (both the original series and ‘Next Generation’, but not ‘Deep Space Nine’ or ‘Voyager’). But after due reflection, I decided against such a defensive reaction. One shouldn’t argue with honest criticism from a reader, however lacking in objectivity.

“Thank you for sharing your views with me,” I wrote in reply. “I shall endeavour to adopt a more constructive tone in future posts.”

To prove I’m as good as my word, I will now pay homage to an employee of Bank of America, who was given the sack for mooning at his line manager. The act itself is not praiseworthy, of course. The typical human mooner is a vulgar oaf seeking to distract and annoy rather than enlighten. What made this particular exposure of the buttocks noble was the grievance that provoked it. For the man, you see, was protesting against the earlier dismissal of a colleague.

How many humans would be magnanimous enough to present their butt cheeks on behalf of a workmate? Not many, I would say. How moving it would be if another employee now moons to protest against the mooner’s dismissal. It could lead to a chain reaction that continued until half the workforce got fired. Perhaps everyone should have mooned together to make it harder to victimise any individual, like in the final scene of Dead Poet’s Society.

Esteem is not the only positive sentiment that I seek to express in this blog. I have never hesitated to show sympathy for humans who have suffered a misfortune through no fault of their own. This is why I must now draw your attention to an incident involving a German monk, who was found naked in a forest, wandering about haphazardly in a daze.

Before you get the wrong idea, I have no intention of mocking the poor fellow. His denuded and confused condition was the result of mistakenly eating some hallucinogenic berries. As a forest-dwelling primate, I know all too well how eating the wrong kind of fruit can make one lose one's marbles. I remember a gorilla called Mangobuns who ate some berries from a mysterious shrub in the Ngabe district. It caused him to shave off his body hair, jump in the Congo River and attempt to have sex with a crocodile. Fortunately, we managed to fish him out before the crocodile snapped his head off. If a wild gorilla can make a mistake like that, what chance has a monk?

So there you are, my touchy human cousin. I've written a post expressing admiration for one man and sympathy for another. What more do you want? The hair off my back?

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