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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Forbidden fruit

The manager of the safari camp is facing a grave moral dilemma:

“I don’t approve of what that photographer did, but I still want to see Kate’s boobs,” he said.

“I suggest you fight your voyeuristic urge,” I advised. “When I was in the circus, there was a clown who had a craving to be pissed on the face by a fat woman. When he finally gave into it, he felt dirty afterwards.”

“Well he would, wouldn’t he?” said the manager. “I’m surprised he found someone who agreed to do it.”

“Every fat woman has her price,” I remarked.

“That’s all very well, but my situation is different. Suppose one of the guests has a magazine with her picture in it. What am I supposed to do? Close my eyes?”

“You could provide the guest with a strip of adhesive tape to mask the duchess’s dumplings. If no one else can see them, you won’t feel so deprived.”

The manager sighed and looked to the heavens for guidance.

The latest news on this scandal is that the man who took the pictures is English. I can well believe it. There is something very un-French about secretly photographing a topless woman. When the Frenchman sees an agreeable pair of titties, he likes to observe them at close range and make the owner aware of his admiration. The obsession with still images of the bosom is a very English fetish.

Kate should be glad that he’s English, because it means he can be charged with treason. I’m sure he’ll get a fair trial before the jury convict him. What would be an appropriate sentence in this day in age? I would recommend squirting lemon juice in his eyes while electrocuting his nipples. A harsh penalty, to be sure, but one has to make an example of such guttersnipes to discourage other traitors in his profession.

A question of more than academic interest is why pictures of Kate’s royal rack are such a hot commodity. Three years ago, she was a middle-class English girl whose bust wouldn’t have turned many heads at a building site. Did marrying a prince automatically perk-up her puppies, causing her nipples to point at a higher angle of elevation?

My old friend Smacker Ramrod is the expert I consult on boob-related issues, so I put this question to him. He assured me that admirers of the female bosom would have been just as eager to see Kate’s jahoobies before she became a royal duchess. The big change, he said, was in the quality of the conversation piece thus acquired. No one is interested in hearing you talk about your neighbour’s norks if that neighbour is a nobody. But if you have have seen a famous pair of jugs, you may discuss their qualities at length, while speculating on the manner of their deployment in the recreational activities for which they were designed.

I think he hit the nail on the head, don’t you? Talking about what you've seen is half the fun for humans.

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Huggy Bear

I’ve been puzzling over why a Florida restaurant owner grabbed President Obama around his midriff and hoisted him above the ground. If he was one of the president’s supporters, as he claims, didn’t he realise that making the commander-in-chief flail about like a skewered insect would be bad for his image? Yet, I don’t believe he was a secret antagonist who intended to make Obama look like a sissy. An opponent of the president would not have had the stomach to embrace him in that peculiarly intimate way.

The manager of the safari camp has his own pet theory, believing that the incident was stage-managed by Obama as part of his re-election strategy.

“He was trying to win over swing voters by showing them his gay side,” he explained to me.

“Are you suggesting that swing voters are predominantly gay?” I asked incredulously.

“Bisexual,” corrected the manager. “They can’t make up their minds in either sex or politics.”

“I see you’re a disciple of the Groucho Marx school of political science,” I remarked. “I’ll mention your idea to any confused pundits I see wandering about in the jungle. It should give them food for thought before their heads explode.”

As a gorilla, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have first-hand knowledge of gay political preferences in America. Having said that, my gut instinct tells me that the gay vote is solidly behind the president, apart from a few bat-shit crazy lesbians who’ve been rabidly Republican since their first fisting experience. The reasons for this are fairly obvious. Like the gays, Barry is a member of a minority group. He sympathises with their history of having to hide their gayness, much as he had to hide his blackness when he was running for the US Senate. He also dresses well and has a moderately butch wife, which puts him on the gay side of the argument.

America has come a long way since the darks days of J Edgar Hoover, when homosexuality was firmly in the water closet. The nearest thing to a gay scene in the movies was when Laurence Olivier pontificated about snails and oysters in Spartacus. Only experts in Roman cuisine knew he was asking Tony Curtis for a hand job. How different things are now. Cinema audiences of today can happily watch a film in which cowboys have butt sex, as long as neither cowboy is Hoss from Bonanza, which would make everyone wince and bite their kneecaps.

The first openly gay American president is surely just a matter of time. Maybe 200 years’ time, but you can’t expect change to occur overnight. While we are waiting, President Obama should help things along by getting the nation accustomed to gay people in public life. If I were him, I would appoint some of those bat-shit crazy Republican lesbians as ambassadors to volatile middle-eastern countries. If anyone knows how to deal with mobs of rioting madmen, they will. Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire.

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Monkee business

I recently got an email from a fan of the Monkees, berating me for not writing a post about Davy Jones, who sadly died of a heart attack earlier this year. Here is an excerpt from the message:

I’ve searched your blog and you’ve never mentioned the Monkees once. If you’re really a gorilla they should be your favourite band, but you’re always banging on about Paul McCartney and The Beatles. Why?

In replying to the email, I pointed out that Paul McCartney is a self-declared friend of the gorilla nation, who has praised our diet, our physique and our divorce laws. I would have written posts about him if he’d been the bass player of Herman’s Hermits.

Although it’s true that I’ve never mentioned the Monkees (until now), let no one interpret this as a snub. Muchly do I like them, even though they were scorned and derided for not playing on their own records. The end-product is what matters to a gorilla. Daydream Believer is definitely one of my favourite pop songs, even though I’ve never been able to make head or tail of the lyrics. Is sleepy Jean upset because the daydream believer is in love with the homecoming queen? Or is the daydream believer making Jean sleepy by telling her about his daydreams (which frankly would make me rather dozy). Oh, what can it mean?

As for Davy Jones, he was a handsome little fellow who will be sorely missed. When I heard of his untimely demise, I raced to the safari camp to inform the manager and request that the flag be flown at half-mast. Unfortunately he was out foraging for mushrooms when I arrived, so I had to tell his wife.

“Which one was Davy Jones?” she asked after I gave her the sorrowful news.

“The English one who played the tambourine,” I replied.

“Oh, how sad, that darling boy was so cute!” she lamented. “I would have loved to shampoo his sweet little head! We should fly the flag at quarter-mast for him.”

So I lowered the Congo Heraldic Ensign three-quarters of the way down the pole.

When the manager returned with his mushrooms, I told him why the flag had been lowered.

“You did the right thing,” he declared solemnly. “If Micky Dolenz had died, I would have worn a black armband as well.”

“Was he a more important member of the band?” I asked.

“Of course!” he answered. “He was the Monkee who most resembled a monkey.”

What this touching anecdote demonstrates is that the absence of a eulogy for someone in this blog does not imply a lack of appreciation. When I admire the work of great artists, I don’t immediately feel the urge to write a blog post about them like a star-struck ninny. And when they kick the bucket, I will mourn their passing in my own way, which may involve the lowering of a flag, a 21-gun salute or vigorous chest-thumping. Only egghead humans believe that words are the answer to everything.

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Health news

I note a spate of breakthroughs in the field of human healthcare. I say “human healthcare”, because you’d have to be a blithering idiot to believe that any of these therapies would work on another species. Homo Sapiens has evolved into an idiosyncratic beast, with its own peculiar diseases and remedies. That’s why vets and doctors are rival professions with their own qualifications and secret handshakes. Having seen both of them, I would say that the vet handshake is kinkier.

The first treatment to consider is clown therapy. Apparently, bringing clowns into hospital wards improves the morale of patients and gives their immune system a boost. I can well believe it. Laughter is a natural opiate which exercises all the right muscles. In my circus career, I raised the hilarity to an even higher level by kicking the clowns’ arses when they were performing. Whether this was good for the health of the audience is difficult to say. Most of them probably felt better, but a few may have suffered hernias or died from laughing too much. A classic case of swings and roundabouts.

The next theory to consider is that eating walnuts improves the health of a man’s sperm. There must be something in this. We apes have always been pro-nut, going to great lengths just to munch on a handful of them. They are surely more than capable of perking up a man’s jism. I am sceptical, however, about the feeble-textured walnut being the nut of choice. Groundnuts and almonds should make human spermatozoa swish their tails more vigorously.

The final treatment I wish to discuss follows conveniently from the last one. It has been postulated that women suffering from depression can cure themselves by taking a man’s semen. This can be done by having straight sex, but oral ingestion is of greater therapeutic value.

Reluctant though I am to pooh-pooh the work of scientists, this one is much harder to swallow. I suspect that a cabal of male researchers have got their heads together in the hope of getting some head. There are a lot of depressed women in the vicinity of medical research laboratories, desperately looking for something to give them a lift. Although going down on horny scientists is unlikely to harm them, one should never give patients false hope. And how will they feel when they find out they’ve been duped into fellating geeky men? It would surely be a terrible blow.

Many humans, of course, nonchalantly ignore the findings of medical science in attending to their physical well-being. I recall an old gypsy woman who cured her ailments by putting a clove of garlic up each nostril. Our local witchdoctor, peace be upon him, got rid of a boil on his behind by smearing it with chicken shit. There are many paths to wisdom in this world of ours, and the men in white coats don’t have all the answers. Having said that, they’re probably the best people to ask if you’re looking for someone to give you a blowjob.

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Girls behaving badly

A correspondent draws my attention to a couple of examples of unladylike behaviour, urging me to seek out the women involved and admonish them. While agreeing that their conduct was deplorable, I reject the idea that I should personally intervene. My job is to observe and reflect rather than punish. Don Bananas I am not.

The first case concerns a singer called Nicki Minaj, whose fame has yet to penetrate the rainforests of the Congo. After cancelling a scheduled performance because of a throat complaint, she grew enraged when some of her fans had the cheek to express disappointment. This is the message she tweeted in response to their complaints:

“I was in jeopardy of losing my voice entirely and needing surgery on my vocal chord. If u can’t understand that, your mother’s a WHORE!”

I would classify her last remark as a non-sequitur of the highest order. After further bickering, she instructed her critics to “eat shit and die”.

It’s worth mentioning that eating shit, although unpleasant, is rarely fatal. Very few animals have poisonous dung. One that does is the honey badger, which feasts on deadly snakes and excretes their venom in its poo. If Miss Minaj had been more astute, she would have told her disgruntled fans to “eat the shit of a honey badger” and left it at that. The words “and die” would have been redundant as death would have followed automatically. Perhaps her few remaining fans should explain this to her, so she can insult them with greater erudition next time.

The second uncouth wench whose deeds I was apprised of is an unnamed 40-something Swedish woman. She has been charged with harassment for despoiling the person and possessions of a 21-year-old man. This fellow was either her boyfriend or some likely lad she had designs on – the precise nature of their relationship has not been disclosed.

The alleged acts were committed after the young man went to bed following an argument with the woman. After he fell asleep, she got into his bed and urinated on him. She then got out of bed and emptied the remaining contents of her bladder on the man’s sofa.

Vexatious though these unauthorised emictions must have been, I think the aggrieved party should have sought satisfaction by issuing a cleaning bill rather than pressing criminal charges. Now that the courts are involved, he will surely be cross-examined about the nature of the dispute than preceded the passing of water. It seems probable that he had rejected the woman’s advances, causing her to behave like the fury which hell hath not.

Much will depend on how this rejection was framed. If he had simply said “Sorry, I’m too tired”, no one could accuse him of insensitivity. But if he had said something like “Leave me alone, droopy tits!” the defendant could legitimately claim some degree of provocation. This wouldn’t excuse her crime, of course. If you are spurned, you should sleep with someone else rather than pissing on your spurner.

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