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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