The invisible gorilla

Scientists have discovered that gossiping humans become so engrossed in their chatter that they lose all awareness of what’s going on around them. They call it the invisible gorilla effect, because the gossipers don’t notice when someone in a gorilla suit walks past them. Would they be distracted by a real gorilla? That would depend very much on how the gorilla reacted to being ignored.

I often encountered gossiping humans in my circus days, and was mightily relieved if I managed to sneak past them without being noticed. The last thing I wanted was to get dragged into the conversation and asked for my opinion on the latest fatuous tittle-tattle. To maximise my chances of escaping, I crept stealthily on all fours and refrained from farting until I had moved a good distance downwind.

A gorilla not used to the ways of humanity might well have behaved differently. If he had thought the humans were snubbing him, he would have stopped and thumped his chest. This normally has the effect of halting conversations in mid-flow and making the humans take heed of the gorilla. They would then have had the options of running away or assuming the submissive position.

Be that as it may, this invisible gorilla phenomenon has become so widely celebrated that a pair of psychologists have written a book about it. The Invisible Gorilla is the unoriginal title of their book, demonstrating their desire to lay claim to the catchphrase. The manager of the safari camp says I ought to advertise the book in this blog:

“You’d get paid whenever anyone clicked on the link,” he explained. “How many gorillas ever made money just by sitting on their hairy arses? You’d be the first.”

“No I would not.” I replied. “There was a gorilla who won a bet by sitting on an ostrich egg without breaking it. In any case, I’m not going to advertise a book until I’m sure I approve of its contents. I’m not a whore who can be bought for money.”

The book has its own promotional website outlining its seminal insights. The authors point out that many colossal blunders have been committed by humans because of blind spots in their brains. This is indeed true. Humans are constantly wringing their hands about the goofs they have made, or complaining about the goofs made by other humans. The purported aim of the book (apart from making money for the authors) is to help people avoid these calamitous pitfalls.

“We try to give you a sort of x-ray vision into your own minds,” they say.

It sounds very good in theory, but they’re a little too cocksure for my liking. I am also annoyed that they make no mention of real gorillas. Could this be because both of the authors are men who have lost their hair, and don’t want their readers to make unfavourable comparisons? I am thinking of posting the following one-star review on Amazon:

This book, written by two bald men, has nothing to do with gorillas. Its title should have been ‘The Invisible Hairpiece’.

Keep it short and sweet when you’re twisting the knife.

Gorilla Bananas is taking a short vacation and will return on Wednesday 8th August.

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Keyhole art

On balance, I think that the new peeping tom exhibit at London’s National Gallery will be a force for good. For those of you who aren’t avid followers of high culture, this work of art consists of a bathroom in which naked women are viewed through carefully positioned peep holes. The women are models, I should hasten to add, and fully aware that visitors are spying on them. One hopes their skin retains its natural oils and juices after being washed and dried on a continuous loop.

Why do I approve of this exhibit? Because I believe that giving peeping toms a lawful outlet for their perversion is better than letting them run amok in respectable society. As well as causing their victims much anguish and annoyance, these fiends have to be hunted down at considerable cost in time and labour. I speak as a gorilla who was dragooned into anti-voyeur duties during his circus career. The female acrobats expected me to guard their changing and showering facilities, as well as apprehending any rascally swine who dared to spy on them.

Although I was happy to protect the girls from intruding eyes, and dealt with offenders as mercifully as the dictates of justice allowed, I would much rather have been reading comics or harvesting root vegetables or competing in toe-wrestling tournaments. No gorilla on his deathbed has ever said “I wish I’d spent more time chasing peeping toms”. Even the biggest dullards of our species have better things to do with their leisure.

I have often wondered why humans, of all the animals, feel shame on exposing their private parts. I think there are two reasons. First, there is considerably more variety in their size and shape than in other species. Imagine a world in which all humans had standard-issue genitalia. Would a man be ashamed of displaying his todger if it were identical to every other human todger? I think not.

The second reason is that humans have less control over their sexual arousal than other species. This is obviously true of men, who dread being discovered with an involuntary stiffy, even when they are fully clothed. Yet there are also women, so I’ve heard, who can be tricked into unwanted nipple-hardening and dilation of the vulva. This is a major biological weakness, because the animal in heat is an easy target for predators. Hence clothes are an essential cloaking mechanism for humans.

The models in the National Gallery have clearly learnt to master their shame, but I’m not particularly keen to watch them in action. Looking at naked humans through peep holes is not the gorilla way. I would much rather view the exciting banana exhibition being held in a museum in Somerset.

The banana is a noble fruit which feels no shame when you peel it. Yet curiously enough, the man whose artefacts are being displayed at the museum was inspired to start his collection by the sight of a woman furtively eating a banana. Why in the name of all that’s white and tasty would a woman be embarrassed about eating a banana in a public place? I admit to mystification.

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Satanists are robbed!

A couple from Colorado have made themselves excellent candidates for the Pussy of the Year award. After someone stole their “Vote Satan” sign, they reported the theft to the police and complained about being victims of a hate crime:

“I feel like we're being treated unfairly because it's not a so-called mainstream religion," whined Luigi Bellaviste, a paid-up member of the Church of Satan.

Come off it, people! You believe in the Prince of Darkness, the guy who got kicked out of Heaven for telling God to lick his scrotum. Followers of the Devil don’t whimper about hate crimes when someone steals their sign: they use black magic to hunt down the thief! After dragging him to their pagan grotto, they put on goat costumes and terrify him with demonic chants. Then they ritually sacrifice him with a razor sharp parsnip and use his blood to varnish their bony relics. No one will ever respect your religion if you can’t bring the vengeance of Hell to a petty crook. Even the Hare Krishnas will start pushing you around.

I’m glad to say the police are treating the incident as common theft rather than religious persecution:

“There’s no evidence that the perpetrator had issues with Satan or those who subscribe to his teachings,” said Lieutenant Chuck Mephisto of the Mountain View Police Department. “He may be planning to sell the sign to other Satanists, so members of that community should report any offers they get from suspicious characters.”

Amen to that.

As a gorilla, I often find humans asking me questions about my religious beliefs. I usually tell them to mind their own business. Only if they gaze at me with sincere and childlike eyes do I instruct them in the rudiments of ape yoga, jungle meditation and the holy utterances of Old Melonhead the Wise. I never try to convert them, though. Humans must find their own spiritual pathway, and trudge along it with stoic fortitude, rather than attempting to ride piggyback on their hairy cousins.

As a matter of fact, we gorillas disapprove of most human religions, because they involve the dangerously unsound practice of worship. Let’s face it: anyone who gets worshipped by a lot of cringing humans is going to become big-headed and arrogant. If won’t be long before he starts demanding sacrifices and issuing commandments and making other unreasonable requests.

I had direct experience of this problem during my time in the circus, when I received a lot of hero-worship from my adoring fans. Fortunately, I managed to curb my megalomaniac impulses by hiring a small monkey to sit on my shoulder and whisper “remember you are mortal” into my ear. Occasionally, I had to spank him for saying “remember you are purple”, which was far from the case.

The downside of my humility was that my fans thought they could steal my possessions without being punished for their effrontery and sacrilege. I am proud to say that I never called the police when they did so. That didn’t stop me from collaring the worst offenders and making them curse their mothers. 

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Vive La Barbe!

When I heard that French feminists were wearing false beards to promote their cause, I clapped my feet and hooted for joy. What a brilliant way of mocking arrogant men who flaunt their masculinity by growing whiskers and speaking in deep voices, as if they were Father Goose or The Jolly Green Giant. If any men dare to belittle them now, they can just scratch their fake beards and say “Ho hum, suck my bum”.

A lot of humans make the mistake of assuming we gorillas respect bearded men because of our own hirsute condition. How wrong they are! The great apes have an even coating of body hair which protects their skin and keeps them cosy. The beard, by contrast, is merely an ornamental tuft. It serves no purpose other than to give men a goatish appearance and hide the zits on their chin. You could argue that it also acts as a bib, but this isn’t a function their wearers are keen emphasize. I'll never forget the Norwegian tourist who went for a jungle hike with a cornflake stuck in his beard. How everyone laughed!

When I mentioned this story to the manager of the safari camp, he shrugged his shoulders scornfully:

“Better fake beards than fake penises,” he said. “No man wants to be chased by a feminist mob wearing strap-ons. Those angry bitches wouldn’t even use lube.”

I grunted sceptically at his misogynist conception.

“As if they haven’t got better things to do than violate your tight little bottom pussy,” I observed. “You must have a very guilty conscience to believe that raping you is high on their list of priorities.”

“I never said it was,” he retorted. “It’s just something they might do for fun in-between all their cursing and plotting.”

“You are an ignoramus and a reactionary!” I declared, before strolling off to the jungle for a grooming from my females.

Contrary to manager’s malicious sniping, these French feminists are proper ladies and much nicer than their Anglo-Saxon counterparts. Their spokesperson is a woman called Colette Coffin, who’s a foxy-looking chick with or without the false whiskers. Their plan of action is to confront male-dominated institutions by gate-crashing their functions and arguing their cause. They do this while donning their beards, although Colette wears a threadbare one for ease of communication:

"I've got a much bushier one, but this has a wider hole so I can talk without getting too much fluff in my mouth," she explained.

Being a chivalrous and tender-hearted gorilla, I sent Collette a message of support, and was delighted to receive the following reply:

Monsieur Bananas

Thank you so much for your sympathetic words. You say the female is your partner and friend, whether she is ape or human. This grand sentiment is a lesson for humanity from the noble mouth of the gorilla! We are proud to accept you as our comrade!

Yes, I shave my underarm. Why do you ask?

Cordial regards

Colette

What do you think? Was she just being polite, or does she really want me to affiliate?

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The flame and the sausage

Hats off to the Lincolnshire mayoress who greeted the Olympic torch in a sausage costume. The fact that many onlookers mistook her for a phallus was not her fault. People with filthy minds will see what they want to see. She has earned my hairy esteem for treating this silly Olympic charade in the spirit it deserves. Ferrying a flame in fifty different directions so people can prance about conceitedly is not a spectacle to be taken seriously.

The Olympic Games are ridiculous, of course. Humans that run and jump for sport are pathetic wannabes – I could put together a team of chimpanzees that would win every track and field event. Why can’t humans play games based on their own survival skills? I am 100% certain that no ape could milk a cow as well as a human. Any chimp that tried to do it would probably squirt milk in his eye before getting a hoof in the mouth. Humans awarding each other medals for bipedal motion are like rabbits giving themselves prizes for landscape gardening.

At this point, you’ll remind me that the Olympics have a proud history going back to the ancient Greeks. What you forget is that the games of classical antiquity were conducted in the nude. Strict rules were required to prevent unsportsmanlike conduct – according to Herodotus, laughing at an opponent’s willy resulted in immediate disqualification. Be that as it may, the modern games have not kept faith with these hallowed traditions for purely pragmatic reasons. If they hadn’t dispensed with the nudity, my guess is that only Germany and Papua New Guinea would participate.

I say this because the Germans are famous for stripping off at the slightest excuse. A recent example of their fondness for doing things naked was seen in the town of Suderlugum, where a new supermarket offered a free trolley of groceries to the first 100 customers who did their shopping in the nude. They got more than they bargained for when half the town turned up naked.

“We were a bit overwhelmed,” said the manager. “We were expecting maybe 10 or 20, but absolutely everyone was in the nude. It was fun but I wouldn't want to do it every day, although it would cut down on shoplifting.”

Call me a suspicious ape, but the manager’s remarks sound evasive to me. A marketing exercise in which 100 customers get a windfall and everyone else leaves empty-handed doesn’t make sense. You’ve got to spread the goodies widely to make such promotions work.

His use of the word “fun” reveals the true nature of this offer. Let’s assume that 20% of Germans are exhibitionists, another 20% are voyeurs, and a further 20% are both. You don’t have to be a mathematical genius to see that any kind of naked event will be immensely popular, with or without free groceries.

All of which suggests that the Germans will use the Olympics as another excuse for group nudity. Anyone planning to go there for a holiday should expect to get invited to naked barbecues in which fat middle-aged men called Gunter will offer them flame-grilled sausages. Remember to blow on them before biting.

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Back in the USSR

Paul McCartney phoned me the other day to moan about the injustices of the world. Apparently, some Russian bureaucrat has blamed the Beatles for the boom in recreational drug use.

“It was 45 ruddy years ago when we admitted taking stuff!” snorted Paul. “Why can’t they blame Amy Winehouse or someone? I wish I hadn’t given that concert in Red Square now, the ungrateful cunts!”

“Don’t let it bother you, Paul,” I replied. “He probably would have blamed Amy Winehouse if she were still alive. The Russians are superstitious buggers and wary of provoking the spirits of the departed. In any case, you ought to be glad that the Beatles are still considered so influential. You wouldn’t get a Russian official complaining about Cliff Richard’s effect on the younger generation.”

“Not unless the younger generation had taken a vow of celibacy after dating a butch tennis player!” quipped Paul.

“He-he-hoo!” I hooted. “What cheeky Liverpudlian waggery!”

In truth, I can’t assess the validity of this Russian fellow’s argument. He seems to be saying that the Beatles’ brief sojourn in the Maharishi’s ashram convinced many young Russians that psychedelic drugs were the answer. It seems idiotic to me, but who am I to say what Russians would believe? They believed in Communism a few years ago.

Whatever their issues with narcotics, the Beatles did set a good example in other aspects of their conduct. Unlike many other millionaire pop stars, they were never obsessed with busty women, which is something they deserve credit for. I can’t think of a single Beatle girlfriend or wife who possessed an enormous pair of hooters. The better known ones were medium at most.

I think this explains why silicone implants didn’t take off until the Fab Four split up. The modern generation of nymphettes simply has no idea that the Beatles were nuzzling small bosoms in the heyday of their fame and fortune. Nowadays, it takes something akin to a Damascene conversion to persuade a woman desirous of a bigger bust to be satisfied with what she’s got.

Such miracles do occur, though. I was heartened hear of Olivia Landin, a waifish English girl who was persuaded to enter a beauty contest before a planned boob job. She won the first prize a mere 48 hours before her appointment with the cosmetic surgeon.

“I never expected to win; it was unbelievable,” said Olivia, aged 20. “As soon as I got off stage I had second thoughts about changing anything about me.”

I’ve never had much regard for beauty contests, but the cancellation of Olivia’s breast enlargement operation proves they can be a force for good. Before drawing any firm conclusions, I would like to know how the judges came to their decision. If they noticed Olivia’s pert little jahoobies and gave them high marks, she is a worthy champion. But if they disregarded her bosom in a politically correct way, her victory would be a hollow one. A beauty pageant in which the boobs are ignored is not an authentic competition.

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