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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Sermon on the hump

A German pastor has attracted a lot of publicity by holding services which celebrate “the divine element of physical love” (as he puts it).

“There is no life without eroticism and no life without God,” he announced in a rapturous sermon. “My backside, my hands, my tongue, my penis, my earlobes are the landing spots of love.”

The man clearly has a gift for language, but his obsession about his landing spots seems unhealthy to me. A pastor who only has eyes for his own erogenous zones will inevitably neglect the needs of his flock. There seem to be a lot of elderly women in his congregation, so maybe he expects them to oblige him without asking for anything in return. That would be sinful – a man of the cloth should give as well as receive.

The German press were disappointed by the absence of practical demonstrations in his service, and his failure to use dirty words like “bumsen”. There’s no pleasing some people. They should have realised what a breakthrough it was for the word “penis” to be uttered in a church without molten lead being poured into the mouth of the utterer. This will surely open the door for words like “nipple” and “labia” to be used in sermons glorifying the divine aspects of foreplay.

When I mentioned this story to the manager of the safari camp, he scratched his chin pensively.

“All credit to the man for trying something different, but I don’t think it will gain him new followers,” he said. “People who want to combine sex with religion worship gods who encourage them to run around naked and have orgies. Christianity is for the guilty; paganism is for the horny.”

He had a point. I doubt this pastor would impress my friend Kola Boof, high priestess of the Nubian bare-titty movement. She remained true to her “womanist” beliefs even after bin Laden kidnapped her and forced her to wear a burkha (so he could rip it off every night). She is now a published writer and poet, with thousands of Facebook followers who hang on her every word.

Kola’s latest pearl of wisdom is that men who have sex with black women find their penises grow longer. Could this be true? I suppose it might be if black women have coochies like vacuum pumps, which stretch whatever’s inside them. But wouldn’t that make sex with them rather painful?

The problem with Kola is that she’s awfully racist, always going on about the finer qualities of black skin, and calling white men who criticise her “jealous bitches”. She ought to realise that racial differences between humans are barely perceptible to a gorilla. We judge our hairless cousins by qualities that really matter, like the shape of their rumps. You don’t get to have a firm and meaty tush unless you’ve been doing exercises that prepare you for jungle living.

I’ll explain this to Kola the next time I see her. She won't like hearing it, but that’s what friends are for.

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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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Code pink

The Germans have come up with a clever way of reforming their hardened criminals. By incarcerating them in bright pink cells, they hope to curb their aggressive impulses and cultivate their fluffy feminine side. Critics of the policy argue that the convicts will feel humiliated, deepening their resentment towards society. It’s a fair point. Perhaps they should be given a choice between living in pink cells or being buggered with an iron poker. Then they could select the option which causes them less umbrage. 

As a gorilla, I have a great deal of sympathy for humiliating punishments. In the words of Old Melonhead the Wise, “Tis better to humiliate a rival than bite off his goolies.” This is especially true in the world of homo sapiens, where humility is scarce and the quantity of bollocks is relatively stable. The guilty have nothing to be proud of, so make them feel humble to purge their souls. They can always regain their self-esteem by doing good deeds and learning how to knit. 

Most German men have humiliation fantasies anyway. That’s obvious from their pornography, which frequently depicts submissive men being bullied by large, sexually voracious women. When Boris Becker impregnated a waitress in a restaurant, he made sure everyone knew about the short duration of their coupling, which apparently lasted no longer than 10 seconds. Is that the kind of detail an arrogant, macho fellow would share with the world? And let’s not forget Stefan Moses, the kinky photographer who showed people naked pictures of himself so he could draw attention to his puny appendage. 

Some forms of humiliation are clearly below the belt, though. I thump my hairy chest in indignation whenever humans reveal the bedroom secrets of their ex-lovers. Remember the blonde actress Sondra Locke, the former on-screen and off-screen partner of Clint Eastwood? When she and Clint parted company, she wrote a book about their life together. Accorded to Sondra, Clint would say “Sweetie, did you floss?” whenever he wanted to have sex. This ugly revelation made everyone wonder whether Clint enjoyed licking a woman’s teeth during coitus. When asked to comment on the book he remained tight-lipped, possibly to avoid drawing attention to his own teeth. 

The danger of jilted humans seeking revenge on their jilters has been recognised by Facebook, which has banned naked photos from its network. Also banned are pictures of urine, vomit, semen and ear wax. I think they’ve gone too far with ear wax. No one should be ashamed about what comes out of their ears, which is difficult to distinguish from guacamole in any case. 

Semen is a more delicate question. One might argue that a man who allows a woman to get hold of his ejaculate should take it on the chin if she later displays pictures of it in Facebook. There’s no point crying over spilled milk. But what if she doctors the semen by adding pepper or cumin, to make it look nasty and unpalatable? It could ruin a man’s sex life. 

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Funny old world

 

The Germans have been voted the least funny humans on Earth in an international poll. I feel for them. In the 1920s, a brilliant young comedian called Adolf Hitler was on the verge of ousting Charlie Chaplin as the world’s premiere clown. Then the Germans put him in charge of their government – immediately his jokes grew stale, and by the outbreak of WW2 he had completely lost his comic timing. As the war drew to a close, even his moustache stopped being funny. Little wonder that he killed himself. 

The Hitler debacle severely disabled the German sense of humour, making it virtually impossible for them to laugh at verbal gags. A recent example of this incapacity was seen in the dismissal of an office worker in Mainz for saying “Ja wohl, Mein Führer!” to his boss’s secretary. Although a court later re-instated the man, it did so on the grounds that he had deserved a warning before being sacked. His claim that the remark had been jocular rather than nostalgic fell on deaf ears. The only acceptable jokes in modern Germany are slapstick pranks, such as a wedding singer swallowing his microphone. 

The dire post-war climate forced the few remaining funny Germans to emigrate. Once such luminary was Professor Heinz Wolff of Brunel University, whom I met many years ago in a VIP lounge. 

“Professor Wolff,” I said, “I watched you perform on television and you made me chortle like a chipmunk. Do you employ joke writers or is it all your own material?” 

“You misunderstand my role, Mr Bananas,” replied the egg-headed one sternly. “I am a scientist, not a comedian, and any humour in my remarks is incidental to their main purpose. I do not have a comedy act and would never perform in a circus as you do.” 

“Come, come, Professor Wolff!” I protested. “You enjoy making people laugh as much as I do! If all you cared about was Science, you would stay in your laboratory doing experiments.” 

The professor tossed his head in irritation, briefly dazzling me with the glare from his shiny pate. 

“I admit I would enjoy making people laugh by performing experiments on you,” he said in a slightly menacing tone. 

I decided not to rile him any further. You never know what these German scientists will do when they get a bee in their bonnet – look at Dr Frankenstein. 

I am glad to say that Professor Wolff did not tone down his comic persona as a result of our tête-à-tête. The pinnacle of his career came later, when he gave his views on penis enlargements in an interview with Ali G. Being a seasoned wag, he was quick to point out that he didn’t need one himself, whatever his sympathies for men who were meagre in the meat-pole department. 

Sadly, there is no medical procedure for a humour deficiency. Perhaps the Germans should pay more visits to the USA, whose citizens were voted the funniest in the poll. Many of them manage to make people laugh without even trying. Take Mr Chris Roller, for example, who believes he is God and has tried to sue famous magicians for misappropriating his divine powers. This excerpt from a talk show shows what a promising talent he is.

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Lone Knut

A mentally disturbed polar bear in Berlin Zoo is getting a lot of sympathy from animal rights groups. Raised by the Germans since he was a cub, Knut quickly learned to perform stunts that went beyond sniffing another bear’s arse. His audiences grew to love his zany antics and hurrahed him wildly in the traditional German manner. Unfortunately he got addicted to the adulation, and now gets nervous tics whenever his fans are absent. PETA has demanded his de-knackering to calm him down. These animal rights activists know the meaning of tough love. 

What Knut really needs is a kick up the backside. He reminds me of circus performers I knew who suffered withdrawal symptoms when they weren’t showing off in the ring. For my own part, I saw the off-season as an opportunity for philanthropic work. I spent a fair amount of time at Dr Whipsnade’s finishing school for aspiring young ladies, where I gave classes in repartee and self-defence. Hundreds of girls from all walks of life were tutored in the Bananas technique. I got this email from a former pupil last week: 

Dear GB, 

Your invaluable training served me grandly when some pot-bellied navvies wolf-whistled me today. In exactly the way you taught us, I gave them the gorilla stare and the crush-your-bollocks hand gesture. Their manhood seemed to shrivel before my very eyes.

I’m still practising the toe exercises and getting better at them!

Hope to see you next time you’re in England. 

Love and more love 

D****** 

I don’t consider myself to be an unduly emotional ape, but this warm tribute from a grateful student made my heart soar like a lappet-faced vulture. The next time we meet I shall challenge her to a friendly toe-wrestle – I might even let her win. 

Another hobby of mine was archaeology. After dirtying my hands in most of the digs in south-east England, I soon became adept at identifying fragments. When dilettanti volunteers got excited on unearthing a piece of bone, I was the one who congratulated them on discovering the mortal remains of one of Colonel Sanders’ finest. My greatest find was a gladiator’s jockstrap, dated to the reign of Antoninus Pius. I believe Russell Crowe wore a smaller replica in his famous film role. 

Getting back to the polar bear issue, it seems that Knut is one of 30 in Germany with behavioural problems. Could the Germans themselves be to blame? History suggests they have a weakness for idolising over-the-top performers who end up losing their marbles. It can’t be easy for a polar bear to bask in the acclaim of thigh-slapping crowds during the day, only to be left alone with a bucket of fish in the evening. 

These neurotic bears should be moved to a country where the zoos are visited by lumpen elements who taunt and heckle the animals. It has to be Wales, hasn’t it? Whatever you say about the Welsh, their yobbos can be trusted to keep a polar bear’s feet on the ground. 

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Ride of the Valkyries

The manager of the safari camp attempts to humour me by claiming that a bullet-proof bra has been invented in Germany. I am not impressed by his apocryphal assertion.

"The Germans invented bosom armour centuries ago,” I remind him. “Brunhilde 'Iron-tits' Kugelbrecher charged into battle with a pair of metal cones sprouting from her bust. As well as protecting her jahoobies from missiles, she could impale a man’s head on her spiky bodkins.”

“That’s not the same thing,” retorts the manager. “A metal bra would cause bullets to ricochet everywhere and get hot after being sprayed with automatic fire. Brunhilde’s titties would have been well and truly cooked.”

“It’s just as well such weapons did not exist when she was alive,” I remark. “What materials is the contemporary boob-protector made of?”

“Ordinary fabrics with extra padding,” he answers.

I later discover that the garment cited by the manager offers no protection whatever against bullets. German policewomen have been advised to wear it underneath an ordinary bullet-proof vest. Once again, a gullible human has been fooled by a misleading news headline.

It follows that metallic bosom armour remains state-of-the-art, and not just for women who do battle in horny helmets. It is also the most effective countermeasure against the insidious groper who will exploit any opportunity to manipulate a woman’s melons. I’m thinking particularly of those degenerate dentists who cannot resist the temptation to paw their female patients, often when they are prone and defenceless on the chair. The number of fiends arrested for this offence continues to accumulate.

A chastity belt would be going too far though. Call me an unadventurous ape, but I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of a two-legged creature going about its business with an object pressed against its crotch. There are certain areas of the body that Nature intended to be well-ventilated, the gusset being the most obvious one. I pity the medieval maidens who had to wear those ungainly groin-padlocks, which through contact with bodily fluids may have poisoned many a cha-cha. The modern human female is will rid of such treacherous and unhygienic appliances.

I’ve never understood the need for knickers either. Why do women wear them? Do they hold something up that would otherwise fall down? Do they prevent things from rubbing against the naked flesh, causing discomfort or embarrassing pleasure? I suspect they are one of those fashion fads that arose in the days of Marie Antoinette, and got passed down through the generations from mother to daughter. If a famous woman like Angela Merkel or Hilldog were to publicly renounce her knickers, great swathes of the female population would surely go commando.

A lot of men would miss seeing panties hanging on clothes lines and having a quick sniff of them in the laundry basket, but they can’t expect women to dance to their tune in these days of gender equality. The gentlemen among them would obtain vicarious pleasure from imagining the sensation of cool air circulating around the female crevices.

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The German question

An overweight English tourist recently claimed that Boris Becker and Steffi Graf were once an item. Can you remember that? I have no recollection of any such liaison. I suspect the man imagined they must have got it on because they were both German. It reminds me of that episode of Star Trek where a Vulcan chick boards the Enterprise and everyone assumes that Spock’s ears will start quivering with lust. They never did, of course, and those who reason in this fashion are guilty of an exceedingly crass type of generalisation.

I’ve actually got a lot of respect for Becker. As well as being a great Wimbledon champion, he had the most pickable nose of any player who graced the centre court. I reckon he could have scooped it out with a teaspoon rather than soiling his fingers. A lot of people can’t get past the fact that he impregnated a woman in a restaurant. The important thing, surely, is that he acknowledged the child as his own rather than denying everything and hiding in New Zealand. By all accounts, he has participated in the girl’s upbringing as well as coughing up the required cash. You have to respect a fellow who manfully accepts the consequences of giving a woman the most thrilling two minutes of her life.

I should mention here that human babies have been conceived in far stranger circumstances. In the circus I worked for there was a husband-and-wife team who performed on the trampoline. In their last season together, they resolved to make a baby while bouncing up and down together on the apparatus of their trade. Obviously not during a show – we gave them an hour alone inside the big tent before it was dismantled for the next venue. I agreed to stand at the entrance to discourage peeping toms. Although it took them a while to get into position, the deed was somehow done, and the pregnancy was confirmed a few weeks later. I believe they named their son Zebedee.

The other interesting thing about Becker’s reproductive activities is his preference for sultry mulatto women. For a ginger-haired Teuton, this shows excellent judgement. The last thing any child needs is a double-helping of the albino gene, resulting in skin that would melt in the sunlight. It also proves that Boris has no sympathy whatever for the abominable racial theories of his grandparents’ generation, in which we apes were offensively dragged into the argument. Speaking against evil is good, but showing you are against it in the way you live your life is even better.

The Germans have come a long way since the dark days of World War Two. They no longer hero-worship madmen and are much less boastful about their sausages. They do still retain the twin obsessions of outdoor exercise and nudity (a legacy of their resistance to the Roman Empire) but are now seeking to subject these pastimes to proper oversight. One who has fallen foul of the new regulations is a naked hiker who went to prison rather than pay a fine for indecent exposure. Although the man is clearly bonkers, I applaud his defiant stand against authority. If more Germans had done that in 1933, Herr Hitler might have had egg on his face a good deal sooner than he did.

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