Code pink

The Germans have come up with a clever way of reforming their hardened criminals. By incarcerating them in bright pink cells, they hope to curb their aggressive impulses and cultivate their fluffy feminine side. Critics of the policy argue that the convicts will feel humiliated, deepening their resentment towards society. It’s a fair point. Perhaps they should be given a choice between living in pink cells or being buggered with an iron poker. Then they could select the option which causes them less umbrage. 

As a gorilla, I have a great deal of sympathy for humiliating punishments. In the words of Old Melonhead the Wise, “Tis better to humiliate a rival than bite off his goolies.” This is especially true in the world of homo sapiens, where humility is scarce and the quantity of bollocks is relatively stable. The guilty have nothing to be proud of, so make them feel humble to purge their souls. They can always regain their self-esteem by doing good deeds and learning how to knit. 

Most German men have humiliation fantasies anyway. That’s obvious from their pornography, which frequently depicts submissive men being bullied by large, sexually voracious women. When Boris Becker impregnated a waitress in a restaurant, he made sure everyone knew about the short duration of their coupling, which apparently lasted no longer than 10 seconds. Is that the kind of detail an arrogant, macho fellow would share with the world? And let’s not forget Stefan Moses, the kinky photographer who showed people naked pictures of himself so he could draw attention to his puny appendage. 

Some forms of humiliation are clearly below the belt, though. I thump my hairy chest in indignation whenever humans reveal the bedroom secrets of their ex-lovers. Remember the blonde actress Sondra Locke, the former on-screen and off-screen partner of Clint Eastwood? When she and Clint parted company, she wrote a book about their life together. Accorded to Sondra, Clint would say “Sweetie, did you floss?” whenever he wanted to have sex. This ugly revelation made everyone wonder whether Clint enjoyed licking a woman’s teeth during coitus. When asked to comment on the book he remained tight-lipped, possibly to avoid drawing attention to his own teeth. 

The danger of jilted humans seeking revenge on their jilters has been recognised by Facebook, which has banned naked photos from its network. Also banned are pictures of urine, vomit, semen and ear wax. I think they’ve gone too far with ear wax. No one should be ashamed about what comes out of their ears, which is difficult to distinguish from guacamole in any case. 

Semen is a more delicate question. One might argue that a man who allows a woman to get hold of his ejaculate should take it on the chin if she later displays pictures of it in Facebook. There’s no point crying over spilled milk. But what if she doctors the semen by adding pepper or cumin, to make it look nasty and unpalatable? It could ruin a man’s sex life. 

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Indian porn scandal

 

Two Indian ministers have been caught watching pornography on their iPhones during a sitting of the state legislature. Their behaviour has provoked much outrage in the country. The richer classes are annoyed that people on public salaries were horsing about in their place of work; the poorer classes are enraged about not having access to internet porn. 

I hope someone tells those Indian ministers that watching pornography will make them impotent. Back in the days of Lilly Langtry, the mere sight of a woman’s ankles could make men explode with lust. Thanks to pornography, there is now nothing left on a woman’s body that incites such a reaction. I foresee a day when a foxy lady will no longer be able to seduce a man by smiling at him and taking off her clothes. Like a female gorilla, she will have to jump on his face and make him smell her glands. 

When I mentioned this story to the manager of the safari camp, he affected an air of puzzlement. 

“Why is looking at porn an issue in India?” he asked. “Didn't it all start with the Kama Sutra?”.

I shook my head and tut-tutted. 

“The Kama Sutra wasn’t pornography,” I replied, “it was a guidebook for the cultivated man. Information and titillation are different things."

“What about tits and titillation?” inquired the manager with vulgar smirk on his face. 

I wasted no more of my breath on this fatuous conversation. 

The Kama Sutra does contain pictures of sex acts, of course, but men of refinement in ancient India were expected to be trained in multiple techniques. This doctrine of boudoir proficiency fell out of favour during the British Raj, when unusual sexual positions were banned, and Indian men of noble birth were taught that cold showers and flogging were the answer to everything. 

Modern India continues to fret frustratedly under this baleful legacy of colonialism. The men of that country stare at women lecherously without knowing how to approach them, while bum-pinchers and gropers lurk in alleyways. The lack of opportunity for authentic erotic activity has fuelled the demand for cheap and nasty porn. 

Perhaps the impending visit of three philanthropic Englishmen will console the Indians in their hour of shame and introspection. These fellows are going on a sponsored rickshaw journey across the country dressed in Spandex Morphsuits. The oppressive heat and lack of good toilet facilities will make this a feat of endurance, even though they’re being driven to their destination. 

“I’m quite a hygienic person,” explained one of the motley gimps, “so living in a Morphsuit for three weeks and not being able to shower three times a day like I do at the moment – that’s quite a worry for me.” 

Let's hope the Indians turn out in large numbers to cheer them on and assist them in any way possible. The men will surely appreciate being sprayed with deodorant as they bump along the hot and dusty roads. And if that doesn’t help, dousing them with cow piss should sterilize their toxic bodily effusions.

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Northern exposure

I had thought that nude hiking was an exclusively German pastime, but apparently it goes on in England too. A man called Nigel Keer has been arrested by an off-duty policeman during a naked ramble through the Yorkshire countryside. The policeman, who was fully clothed, made the cop after noticing the “disgusted face” of a woman walking her dog. 

The policeman’s behaviour looks fishy to me. Why would an officer of the law apprehend a naked man because he saw a woman’s disgusted face? Wouldn’t the sight of his wobbly buttocks be sufficient grounds to take him in for questioning? I suspect this so-called policeman is either a nudist sympathiser or a closet nudist himself. He obviously has no objection to people running around naked unless they happen to upset women walking their dogs. The suspicion of police collusion dangles from this case like a limp piece of flesh. I hope the judge gets to the bottom of it. 

The hiker has attempted to justify his unclothed caper by saying that he was unemployed and had nothing better to do: 

“It was just something I did to pass the time,” he explained. 

I have a certain amount of sympathy for his line of argument. If you’re out of work, going for a naked stroll is far better for body and spirit than watching daytime TV or playing marbles. And as Mr Keer pointed out, there’s a huge difference between honest, bare-arsed nudity and flashing. There was no reason at all for the dog-walking woman to frown disgustedly at him. If that’s how she reacts to a naked man minding his own business, what would she do if some foul wretch pulled down his pants and leered at her? Have a nervous breakdown? 

Of course, it’s possible she was disgusted by the man’s body because she found it unsightly. I suspect there are many women who never look at naked men unless they are gazing at statues of Graeco-Roman gods, which exhibit a perfection of form that few real men can attain. It is also evident that these statues are quite modest in the todger department, which in the classical world was viewed as a sign of refinement. Artefacts retrieved from Pompeii indicate that the Romans thought big willies were ludicrous, befitting donkeys rather than men. I dare say there are still many English spinsters who have no idea how grotesque and droopy a man’s genitalia can be. 

In view of these mitigating factors, I think Mr Keer is fully justified in appealing against the fine of 315 pounds sterling imposed on him. It’s all very well to sympathise with the woman he offended, but what about his feelings? It can’t be very nice to have someone frown at your private parts as if they were horrible deformed things. Perhaps the best solution would be for Mr Keer to meet the woman fully-clothed and assure her that he meant no affront. The court could then provide her with some photos to convince her that what she saw was nothing out of the ordinary.

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Bull bollock pie

The manager of the safari camp has been asking me for advice on natural jungle aphrodisiacs. Every Valentine’s Day, his wife makes him choose between taking her to Paris or being her sex slave for the day. The Artic weather conditions now prevailing in Europe argued against the Paris trip, so he resigned himself to gigolo duty, an assignment which requires him to wear a loin cloth and rub his body with oil. The expression on his face made me think of a weary old bull being driven into a paddock where an insatiable cow awaited him. 

I told him that although I knew of a herbal stimulant that works well for apes, I wasn’t sure of its effect on humans. Maybe it would help him rise to the occasion or maybe it wouldn’t. Nor could I rule out side effects. 

“You don’t want to be a guinea pig on V-night,” I cautioned. “Suppose you started having convulsions when your wife was sitting on your face? She might give you a karate chop.” 

“Well, I’m not using Viagra,” he mused. “When I took one of those pills last year, it was like inflating a tyre with too much air. My organ ached for days.” 

“A grievous affliction to be sure,” I remarked. “The only other thing I can suggest is a Valentine’s Day dish invented by an entrepreneur in England. His company is marketing a bull testicle pie which he promises will invigorate the loins and make the bedsprings creak. It’s so potent there’s a health warning on the packet.” 

“Where can I get the recipe?” asked the manager. 

“The recipe isn’t important as long as you ingest the active ingredient.” I replied. “I believe there’s a cattle ranch in the Umbogo district which gives them away free if you bite them off yourself.” 

“I’ll try the meat market in Brazzaville,” said the manager cautiously. 

What can one say about Valentine’s Day? I’ve always thought it was an occasion for needy women to pretend they were adored by a man by pressuring him into jumping through some well-advertised hoops. During a circus tour of Costa Rica, I remember seeing hundreds of teenagers canoodling in a public square on 14th February. They reminded me of the brainwashed followers of a kooky religious cult participating in a mass wedding. I have nothing against one or two couples smooching in a public place, which adds a little sugar to the scenery. But when a whole herd of them does it, we're moving into rabbit-farm territory.

I wonder what Taib Seferovic has been doing on Valentine’s Day? For those who haven’t been following the news, he is a 61-year-old Bosnian man with 49 ex-wives, fervently hoping to get hitched for the 50th time. 

“My wives have never asked for alimony because they know I have no money," he explained.

I suppose he must have spent it all on chocolates and flowers. He sounds like a great catch for some lucky spinster.

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Mating calls

Scientists have come up with a far-fetched theory to explain why bonobos (our mutual primate cousins) make a hullabaloo while having sex. Observing that it is always the lower-ranking ape who screeches excitedly, they believe it does so to inform the rest of the troupe of the coupling. They theorise that being casually bonked by a higher-ranking bonobo actually elevates its status, rather than giving it a reputation as a social-climbing hoochie. As bonobos are promiscuous and bisexual, the ape that makes a racket could be of either gender or sexual orientation. 

Do lower-ranking bonobos really have the same mentality as groupies, who acquire kudos within their peer group when a pop star gets in their pants? I suspect there are other, more obvious explanations. Perhaps they are simply unable to contain their pleasure at being ravished by a social superior. Or being keen to please, they might make a lot of noise because the dominant bonobo likes it. 

I was occasionally disturbed by the cries of fornicating humans in my circus days. In one particularly aggravating incident, I heard a woman scream in a nearby trailer as if she were being murdered or molested. What does one do in such a situation? I took the view that it was better to be safe than sorry, and banged on the door like a policeman. 

“Open up in the name of the law!” I bellowed. “Stop what you are doing and surrender!” 

After a few seconds of silence, I heard a female voice giggling hysterically. This goaded me into making another emphatic statement. 

“I don’t know who you are, Miss, but the noises you were making were indistinguishable from those of the victim of a monstrous violation!” 

“I know,” she replied tartly. “He’s quite a monster and I’m feeling very violated!” 

Her saucy banter deserved a brusque response. 

“Is he indeed? Obviously, a rather tongue-tied monster to let a woman speak for him.” 

“Oh no, his tongue is very untied!” quipped the floozy, quite unabashed at having been caught in the act. 

I decided to direct my next statement at the monster himself. 

“Be that as it may, I would ask him to show more consideration for those who must endure the bedlam created by his actions. Perhaps he might consider the use of a gag in future escapades of this kind.” 

I marched off briskly before she could provoke me with another cheeky retort. 

Now, the big difference between humans and bonobos is that the apes use sex as a friendly greeting, like a handshake. If two hostile bonobo tribes agreed to make peace, their leaders would seal the deal by having a quick shag on the conference table. For humans, there is absolutely no reason for a couple having sex to advertise the fact to anyone. Humans who insist on making a din must be playing a deep psychological game involving boasting, exhibitionism and the marking of territory. The next time it happens, I’ll retaliate with some loud noises of my own. 

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Push-up contest

I have just received a sumptuous basket of exotic fruit from the manager of the safari camp. You might suppose the gift is a token of his esteem for my services to the safari industry, or for my numerous diplomatic efforts on his behalf, both with business associates and his wife. Richly deserved though such awards would be, they were not bestowed with the basket of fruit. He was actually settling a bet we had made on the outcome of a contest between Ellen Degeneres and Michelle Obama. 

The president’s wife had appeared on Ellen’s TV show, where she accepted a challenge from her host to see who could do the most push-ups in front of the studio audience. The manager reacted with consternation to Mrs Obama’s willingness to participate in such a spectacle. 

“Is she crazy?!” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t she know that butch lesbians work out like men and have all the male hormones? She’s going to embarrass her husband by getting publicly ass-whipped by a white woman! That girl’s got too much attitude for her own good!” 

“I beg to differ!” I declared. “Having studied the arms of both women closely, I am firmly of the opinion that the said whipping will be inflicted upon Ellen’s scrawny white bottom. Would you care for a wager?” 

“Damn right I would!” replied the manager. 

The two women got down to it and started humping the floor. Ellen’s arms gave way after 20 pushes, while Michelle progressed smoothly to 25, where she stopped to avoid humiliating her opponent. The manager accepted his defeat meekly: 

“This is a sad day for butch lesbians,” he said. “Any black woman will now think she can push them aside and steal their pretty girlfriends.” 

It’s a pity that Mrs Obama can’t use her strong arms in the service of her country, being too old for the Marines and too attractive for the postal service. Perhaps she should travel around America punching rap singers in the mouth instead. It’s about time someone punished them for their surly behaviour and disrespectful attitude. A gimmick like that might appeal to millions of redneck women, winning her husband vital swing votes in November’s election. 

Not everyone is a fan of strong-armed women, of course. Back in my circus days, the female acrobats fretted about what potential boyfriends would think of the quite modest muscular development on their upper arms. 

“Ladies,” I said to them, “there’s no point covering up your arms to hide those little bumps. If a man you like notices them, flaunt them with pride and tell him they’re your arm-boobs. In my experience, men are always more favourably disposed to objects they associate with bosom flesh.” 

My advice served the girls well, but only because their biceps were moderately bulging. Women who take things to extremes in the body-building endeavour are bound to appear freakish and unappealing. Having arms like Popeye the Sailor Man may scare off the gropers and bum-pinchers, but it won’t make your boyfriend jizz in his pants. 

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