Language lessons

I’m glad to hear that Brazilian prostitutes are preparing for next year’s football World Cup by learning English. The manager of the safari camp laughed like an idiot when he heard about this:

“Why are they bothering when there are well-known hand signals for their services?” he guffawed.

“Not all whores are as cheap as the ones you’d be willing to pay for,” I retorted. “Some men appreciate a little conversation before getting down to the nitty-gritty. And possibly during it as well.”

“Oo-hoo, a gorilla pimp!” chirped the manager sarcastically. “Can I meet your bottom bitch?”

“My bottom bitch is a female gorilla,” I replied. “She’d give you her hand signals whether or not you asked for them.”

That shut him up.

I’m proud to say that I’ve always had a good rapport with women who work in the sex industry. Once they realise I’m not a potential client, they stop all their phony posturing and unburden their souls to me. (Yes, prostitutes do have souls: the religious fundamentalists are wrong about that.) After listening patiently to their confessions, I do what I can to soothe their anxieties and encourage their cultural leanings. Some of them are quite intelligent. I’ve had interesting discussions with prostitutes about wind turbines, vegetarian cuisine and the latest douche technology.

Not everyone who visits Brazil during the World Cup will consort with call girls, of course. Some men are so fanatical about football that they’d rather watch their team score a goal than score themselves with a woman. There’s been an on-going debate within the footballing fraternity about whether certain memorable goals were better than orgasms. It’s not a question I feel competent to address, other than to note that the answer depends on the quality of the orgasm as well as the quality of the goal. Clearly, some humans have better ones than others, even before resorting to strangulation and apples in the mouth.

One man who won’t be visiting any hookers for a long time is the West Indian security guard who shot himself in the penis. This unsavoury incident occurred when he was loitering suspiciously inside a parked car. What surprises me is that the police are now holding him under guard in hospital. Even if shooting one’s penis is a crime in Trinidad, it is surely its own punishment. There’s no need for a judge and jury to rub salt in the wound.

Let’s hope the doctors can arrange a dick transplant for the fellow. There must be a suitable donor from all the hundreds of young men who die in motorcycle accidents. Although Freudian theory suggests that bikers are under-endowed in the todger department, this is probably a good thing for transplant surgery. Men should not be given an incentive to replace their private parts for cosmetic reasons.

This brings us neatly to the question of what should be done with Ron Jeremy’s penis if he suffers an untimely demise. My preferred solution would be turning it into a party horn that children could blow-up when they visit the Smithsonian. On second thoughts, that’s vile, but do you have a better suggestion?

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Another porn addict?

So a female chimp in a Spanish zoo keeps on switching her TV to the porn channel. Whatever. She probably thinks she’s watching wildlife documentaries showing the oddities of Nature. There is no evidence that she found any of it titillating. As a gorilla-anthropologist, I’ve watched a fair amount of human porn myself. I’d be lying if I said it had no entertainment value, but my tits were definitely not lated.

I was sorry to hear that a professor in Montreal had to abandon a research project investigating the impact of pornography on young men. The problem was he couldn’t find any fellows who didn’t watch porn, whom he needed for his control group. Hard luck, Mr Professor, it must be terribly frustrating to have your passion for scientific enquiry thwarted by the single-minded depravity of the male population. I believe Dr Johnson encountered a similar obstacle when he tried to examine the effect of masturbation on the moral character of the legal profession. Some questions, it seems, are destined to be beyond the grasp of empirical science.

A lack of scientific evidence doesn’t stop us from making educated guesses, of course. I’m not the kind of ape who refrains from postulating until a boffin gives him hard data. I should think it’s pretty self-evident that watching pornography from the age of 10 has convinced most young men that women love it when you come in their faces. My ape intuition tells me they are almost certainly mistaken. A man’s jism was not designed by Nature to be a face cream, although it may well provide limited protection against mosquito bites. I would hazard a guess that the first thing a porn actress does, after the director says “cut”, is reach for a box of Kleenex.

This doesn’t mean that facial-jizzing is, or should be, an issue for feminist activism. Some problems are best dealt with on an ad hoc basis. I remember a male baboon who was always trying to do it to his females. He never once succeeded, because they always managed to duck at the critical moment. Women are no less adept at evasive manoeuvres with a bit of practice. Any fool can point a weapon and shoot – it takes genuine skill to hit a moving target.

Anyway, I’m certain that the female chimp in Spain would not be watching all this ugly human cock-spurting if there were better options on TV. If I were running that zoo, I would give her a channel featuring re-runs of the old Batman series. The show has a huge following in the hairy primate community. My favourite character is Catwoman, who made Batman look like the pompous eunuch that he was. There is something particularly fascinating about a woman who dresses up in a skin-tight costume and gives us a glimpse of the animal within. Had we ever met in Gotham City, I might well have allowed her to scratch my hairy back. You need sharp claws to penetrate a gorilla’s fur.

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Russian refuge

Very clever of Mr Putin to grant Russian citizenship to Gerard Depardieu. If nothing else, it will help alleviate the chronic shortage of fat men in the country. The governor of Mordovia, a region famous for its prison camps, has invited the potato-shaped actor to settle there. As the only nightlife in that part of Russia involves climbing up watch towers and pissing on stray cats, it’s not an offer that’s likely to be accepted.

Let’s hope Depardieu does something to revive the moribund Russian film industry. I once saw a Russian movie in an art-house cinema: it was incredibly grim and depressing – nothing but revolting masses and angry men with beards. I can’t understand why the Russians, who were the first humans in space, don’t make more science fiction pictures. How about a Russian version of Star Wars in which Depardieu plays Jabba the Hut? Or a spin-off from Star Trek in which Chekov is the captain of the Enterprise and Depardieu is the Grossovian ambassador from Fattus-5? The great thing about a galaxy class star ship is its replicating machines made it impossible to run out of food.

The real reason for Depardieu’s departure to Mother Russia is his wish to avoid new taxes imposed by the French government. The president of France has described him as “shabby and unpatriotic” for refusing to dig deep into his pockets. My sympathies are with Depardieu here. If governments are short of money, they ought to earn it themselves instead of grabbing the assets of hard-pressed entertainers. I remember getting a visit from a tax inspector when I was a highly paid circus performer.

“Leave me alone, you accursed leech!” I barked. “I give my spare cash to worthy causes, not to upstarts who harass me with impudent demands! We will resolve this matter in a court of law!”

This led to the famous test case of Regina v Bananas. The high court ruled that philanthropic primates should be exempt from human taxes on the grounds that their natural generosity would impel them to devote a fair proportion of their wealth to the public good. It was a Magna Carta moment for the gorilla nation.

I’m glad to say that not all Europeans are as bereft of money-making ideas as the French government. A Czech woman has come up with the ingenious venture of selling advertising space on her breasts. This is her sales pitch:

I am a beautiful young girl and I offer my breasts for greeting cards and adverts. Send me your message and I’ll send you a pic with it written on my breasts.

Her charges are very reasonable and the demand for her services is soaring.

“It’s good value for money,” said one satisfied customer. “But I’d pay double if I could write the advert myself.”

Maybe Depardieu could make up with the French government by offering them free advertising space on his arse. There’s enough room there for the Marseillais and the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

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Third time unlucky?

Call me a finicky ape, but I don’t like the look of Kate Winslet’s new husband. He reminds me of a baboon I once thrashed for making indecent suggestions to my females. Before you accuse me of being a bully, I gave that baboon a good hiding out of kindness. Had I not done so, my females would have taken the law into their own hands and crushed his testicles like almonds.

Now, back to Kate’s husband: he does not particularly resemble a baboon; nor, to my knowledge, are his gonads in danger of being pulverised. But there is something baboonish about the expression on his face. That gawping countenance suggests he’s easily distracted and lacks self-control. It makes me wonder whether he was ogling the bridesmaids when he uttered his marriage vows.

Perhaps Kate considered him a worthy suitor because he’s a nephew of Richard Branson, the British entrepreneur. If so, she ignored some fairly clear warning signs, the most obvious one being that he’d changed his name to Ned RocknRoll. What kind of arsehead would adopt such a name? My guess is that his brain stopped developing at the age of 15 and he still dreams of being the lead singer in a pop group. He no doubt fantasizes about being chased by delirious groupies, eager to make a lollipop of his todger.

But why I should care about the character of Kate’s latest husband? The manager of the safari camp made this point when I brought up the subject with him:

“You’re not her Hairy Godfather!” he jeered.

“We gorillas are avuncular,” I replied. “I don’t have to wait until she’s my bosom buddy before showing concern.”

“If Kate’s bosom and me were buddies, that joker she married would be sleeping on the couch!” quipped the manager.

An idle boast, to be sure, but I can’t fault his appreciation of Kate’s jahoobies. I myself have often expressed admiration for her luscious figure, so ideally suited to the task of making babies. She already has two children sired by different fathers, a clever reproductive strategy of putting each egg in a different soufflé. My worry is that soufflé No.3 will turn out to be a raspberry fool.

Now that she’s married the blighter one must wish her well, of course. Maybe she’ll train him like a dog, taking him for walks and giving him treats when he obeys her commands. Ned is actually the perfect name for a dim-witted mutt who isn’t sure where to bury his bone. Hopefully, he’ll learn that his mistress knows all the best hiding places.

As luck would have it, a new gadget has been invented for humans taking the canine path. It is a tail that wags to the pulse of the wearer when attached to his or her rump. This device could allow Kate to monitor her husband’s moods, and put him on a leash when the neighbourhood bitches were in heat. In this day and age, a happy marriage requires investment in the latest technology.

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Electric butt plug

Somebody sent me an email urging me to read a book called Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t know who the emailer is, but the main argument he made was as follows:

It’s the perfect book to write about in your blog. The main character is a woman who enjoys having an electric plug stuck up her bottom!

I don’t know whether to believe this. Electric plugs come in many shapes in sizes, but none, as far as I know, is suitable for pleasuring a woman’s dorsal orifice. I often get emails from practical jokers trying to bamboozle me with outlandish hoaxes. Another possibility is that my emailer is woefully ignorant about anal devices and confused an electric plug with a butt plug. Here is the substance of my reply:

Thanks for the suggestion, but it doesn’t sound like something I’d want to read. I’m not a fan of inserting plugs into sockets which haven’t been electrically tested. What you describe would be futile unless the woman could generate an alternating current in her rectum.

So much for Fifty Shades of Grey, now for a book I might actually read. I discovered it by accident during my anthropological studies and its title is God’s Doodle: The Life and Times of the Penis. As a work of non-fiction, it should be full of hard facts rather than descriptions of deeds which stretch credulity. All its Amazon reviews have 5 stars and the female reviewers found the book funny. One assumes they laughed at the pictures as much as the words. Here is what a couple of enthralled ladies wrote:

“I was laughing out loud and that was just at the introduction! Appeals to both men and women, my husband loved it too. I'll be buying more copies to give as Xmas gifts. Excellent!” – JessieSmurf

“A great book, really funny, I would recommend for yourself or as a present. Well written, this could be the next big thing.” – Jacqui

It’s a pity more people didn’t buy it for Christmas: it sounds like a great stocking stuffer.

A lot of men get annoyed when women laugh at their willies. They shouldn’t. Laughter is often a mask for other emotions, such as apprehension, surprise and discomfort caused by moisture in the panties. Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, once told me that a woman he’d slept with had giggled at his dick.

“Don’t worry about it, Smacker,” I said. “Far better that she giggled than screamed or called the police.”

Unlike being sodomised by an electric plug, laughter is a normal, healthy thing for a woman to do. It relieves stress and exercises vital muscles, including those in the vicinity of the coochie. That’s why women who laugh frequently are more relaxed and easier to get into bed. If I were a man, I would happily garnish my todger with pretzel rings and icing sugar to make a woman laugh. As Martin Luther King said, you’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.

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