What Kim Kardasdian wants

I have been forced, much against my better judgement, to find out who Kim Kardashian is. The manager of the safari camp is to blame for showing me a newspaper article about her, in which she was quoted as saying that she’d like to be a man so she could have sex with herself:

“I just want to know what it would feel like,” she mused.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said to the manager. “If she were a man, the person she’d be having sex with would be someone else. You can’t be two people at the same time.”

The manager ignored my point of logic and said: “If she wants to know what it feels like to screw herself, she should stick her leg inside a stocking that’s three sizes too big. That should give her a pretty good idea.”

“Is that so?” I replied. “As a gorilla who used to wear pantaloons in the circus, I’m glad that that analogy never occurred to me.”

“That’s because you don’t have my imagination,” said the manager, before slinking off with a smirk on his face.

This exchange prompted me to do my own research on Miss Kardashian. The first thing I learned was that she’s one of those celebrities who shot to fame for reasons that were quickly forgotten. There is nothing in the documentary record to indicate that she practised a profession or performed notable deeds. Maybe her winning smile won her acclaim… or something. As for the manager’s coochie comparison, I couldn’t find anything definitive, but his conjecture was far from implausible. The bounciest trampoline will lose its spring if it’s jumped on too frequently.

Will Kim go down in history as the vacuous bimbo who said “OK” when people told her to go and fuck herself? She might yet avoid this ignoble fate by championing a worthy cause, such as the nipple rights of women in North Carolina. The state legislature in that benighted corner of the Confederacy is toying with the idea of making it a felony for women to expose the tips of their titties. This flagrant violation of the First Amendment is a devilish provocation, no less execrable than the attack on Fort Sumter.

What Kim should do is give the first lady a call and organise a million-nipple march right through the heart of the rebel state, in the manner of the late General Sherman. On second thoughts make that a two-million nipple march – let’s keep the numbers round. She could then make a name for herself by leading bare-breasted cavalry charges against recalcitrant rednecks determined to keep the nipple in bondage.

As a gesture of goodwill to their enslaved southern sisters, lactating ladies in the liberating army could suckle hungry babies on their route to the state capital. This is what Salma Hayek did on a recent visit to Africa and it made her more popular than Bono and Geldorf. (And almost as popular as Ermintrude the dairy cow.)

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Resigned to his fate

I’ve just returned from a gala jungle event celebrating Pope Benny’s resignation. Everyone expected me to lampoon the old codger in my post-banquet speech, but I surprised them all by wishing him a happy retirement. I even persuaded the guests to pledge donations for a farewell gift, which we agreed should be a quartz crystal butt-plug. An ex-high-pontiff should gouge his rectum with the finest materials – the dignity of his position demands nothing less.

It’s no secret that Benny and I had our differences. His modus operandi was to make the innocent feel guilty so he could forgive them, while concealing the deeds of the guilty so that no one would blame the church. My modus operandi is to help humans discover their inner ape, so they lose their fear of being goosed and turn the other arse-cheek. These divergent philosophies meant we didn’t see eye-to-eye on a number of important issues concerning the erogenous zones. So be it. Now is the time to let bygones be bygones and let Benny hide in a monastery.

Some French feminists wanted me to join them for a celebration in Paris, but I turned them down. They held the event in Notre Dame Cathedral and marked the occasion of the Pope’s departure by chanting slogans at bemused tourists while running around topless. They also banged the big bell for good measure. I suspect they wanted me to bang the bell for them so they could concentrate on promulgating their message (whatever it was). I’m glad I didn’t go. A gorilla should not pander to stereotype by pounding away at the behest of nubile women.

It’s difficult to discuss Pope Benny without the condom question rearing its ugly head. He feared that people who used them would bonk away compulsively without having to worry about the consequences, which would make a mockery of the church. The good news for Benny is that a college student in America has come up with an idea that might address this concern. Mr Kyle McCabe is providing an emergency condom service for students on the point of copulation. As these condoms will only be delivered when the stiffy is ready and waiting, there is no question of encouraging anything that wouldn’t have happened anyway. I hope Benny’s successor will endorse this responsible use of the rubber.

The new Pope will have more important things to worry about, of course. The spiritual health of the flock is not what it might be in these days of confusion and disorder. Much of the problem, in my view, is the guilt Catholics feel about disobeying the church’s teaching on masturbation. I don’t know of a single one who is devout on this issue. Certainly not Ms Frankie Dobson, who recently educated me about the pleasures of a double-penetration wank. It’s high time the church legalised such acts to unburden the souls of the faithful. Perhaps Benny could experiment with the butt-plug we sent him and report back on its potential for spiritual invigoration.

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Balkans bush prank

Study the face of the man pictured above, the prime minister of Serbia. It’s the face of a man who’s observing a pantyless woman uncross her legs (in the all too imitable style of Miss Sharon Stone). Are you surprised to see him smiling? You shouldn’t be. The leader of a nation cannot allow a female flasher to rile him. Imagine what would have happened if President Kennedy had got riled when Marilyn Munroe combed her cat-fluff during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The world as we know it would be a Mad Max movie in which Mel Gibson was one of the bad guys.

Now the Serbian premier was the victim of a clever hoax. A Croatian TV station had invited him to be interviewed by a reporter who was actually a Playboy model. They wanted to see if he would lose his composure after getting a glimpse of her lady-garden. Miss Branka Knezevic (pictured below) was hugely impressed by his unflappable reaction:

"He is a strong, real man, exactly the one who should lead this country," she told a Serbian tabloid after the interview.

Who could argue with her? A lesser political figure would have snorted like a bull before plunging his drooling face between her luscious thighs. Only a true statesman can keep his tongue in his mouth when an appetising dish is flaunted before him.

Basic Instinct is a film that taught me a lot about human behaviour. I later had to unlearn most of what I was taught, but that didn’t annoy me. You discover a lot about humans from their fables and fantasies. The enduring message of the movie is that a man can enjoy “the fuck of the century” and still not be satisfied. He has to wander around naked in the femme fatale’s house and trash-talk her lesbian lover. He has to ravish his ex-girlfriend in the butt for acting whiny. He has to let the femme fatale straddle him when he knows she’s got an ice pick under the bed. It reminds me of a saying of Old Melonhead (the semi-mythical ape who was Aesop’s role model):

Indulge not your desires, for verily they are insatiable. As one craving is quenched, yet another shall rise from the meat of your loins.

As for Sharon Stone, I thought her performance was a tour de force, and not because she exposed her snatch. A slightly furry vulva is neither here nor there to a gorilla. Her splendiferous achievement, in my eyes, was to show a whole generation of ladies how to fake an orgasm convincingly. Internet research indicates that virtually all women feel obliged to do this from time to time. I don’t blame them. Sometimes an outburst of caterwauling is the quickest way of cutting one’s losses and getting a good night’s sleep.

If I were the Serbian prime minister, I’d hold a Sharon Stone film festival in Belgrade this summer. When life has imitated art, you’ve got to embrace the connection and milk it for all its worth. 

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Iranian space monkey

I hear the Iranian space program has taken another giant hop by blasting a monkey skywards. Animal rights groups have condemned the venture for traumatising the monkey and making it scared of heights (a fatal phobia for any tree-dwelling primate). The Iranians have called their critics hypocrites for not protesting when NASA sent chimps into space in the 1960s. The monkey is currently eating pistachio nuts and unavailable for comment.

I have two points to make to the Iranian government:

1. Chimps are not monkeys;

2. Why the hell are you trying to copy the Americans anyway? “Monkey see, monkey do” is not a valid reason for a major national enterprise.

If there’s one man who could persuade the Iranians to stop all their monkey business, it’s Patrick Duffy. Playing Bobby Ewing made him recognised throughout the world as the nice American you could trust not to kick your ass unless you really deserved it. In a recent interview, he described what happened when he drove though the red-light district of Paris on a family sight-seeing trip. “Booby, Booby!” cried the French tarts, as they mobbed his car and begged to kiss him.

This could never happen in Iran, of course. For one thing, all the prostitutes have either been imprisoned or forced into marriages where they have to work for free. But nothing in the world could stop the Iranian masses from taking to the streets and shouting “Booby, Booby!” if they saw Patrick Duffy in a car. Trying to kiss him would be a capital crime, but anyone who blew kisses in his direction would probably be let off with a whipping.

Such adulation for an American actor might convince the Big Beards of the Islamic Republic that producing a world famous TV show would do more for Iran’s image than sending a monkey into space. Can you imagine what an Iranian version of Dallas would be like? No, I can’t either, but don’t tell me you wouldn’t watch it. Maybe the J.R. character would wear a turban instead of a Stetson and barter oil for wives with cunning Chinamen. And maybe Lucy Ewing would be a sulky little minx in a niqab, always falling for clean-shaven gay men trying to escape the country.

Not all nations have revealed themselves to the world in TV shows, which makes them a fertile template for fantasy and myth. A few years ago, a Chinese newspaper told its readers about a town in Sweden populated by 25,000 lesbians wearing “thick waist belts full of woodworking equipment”. The men of China were incredibly excited by this news and googled furiously for pictures and tourist information. The Swedes eventually denied the story, but perhaps they should have founded the town to keep the Chinese interested.

If any Swedish lesbians want to set up a colony the Congo rainforest, I will use my good offices to cut through the red tape and provide them with tree-houses and open-air bathing pools. The gorilla habitat is extremely lesbian-friendly, and it’s about time Davy Attenborough had a new species to wax his lyrical tongue on.

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