Hungry for power

The manager of the safari camp refuses to believe that Sarah Palin had a fetish for black men in her carefree days as a nubile college nymph. 

“There’s no way a white woman would marry a Caucasian after sleeping with black men,” he declared. “When they’ve had black, there’s no going back.” 

“Perhaps it was a case of ‘too much of a good thing’,” I suggested. “I’ve heard of humans going off chocolate after binging on those dark chunky slabs they sell in the supermarket.” 

“Fish-paste!” scoffed the manager. “A woman doesn’t go off men for being too chunky. Not unless they make her do kinky stuff, like biting their buttocks while the dog is watching. Black men aren’t into such vices.” 

“I humbly bow to your superior knowledge,” I replied. “Your scholarship in this field is clearly second to none.” 

Unfortunately for Sarah, the rumour will damage her politically whether or not it’s true. Many white men will deeply resent the idea that black college athletes enjoyed the flower of her womanhood at its freshest, while her hapless husband had to make do with the stale leftovers. I don’t see how the Republican Party could nominate her now, given that she’d have to take part in live TV debates with President Obama. All that Barry would have to do is flex his forearms and throw her a wink to make her go weak at the knees. 

The unwritten rule for a woman with political ambitions is to get elected before embarking upon a sex scandal. Consider the case of Julia Gillard, the raunchy redhead who governs Australia in the name of the Queen. Before becoming prime minister, she fooled people into thinking she was a frigid schoolmistress who changed her knickers every time the wind blew up her skirt. When I say “people” I mean “humans”, of course. We gorillas knew she was an insatiable vixen from the minute she entered politics. You don’t deny yourself the carnal delights if you’ve got the orang-utan gene. 

Now that her hands are on the levers of power, a show has appeared on Australian TV depicting an alleged kerfuffle on the floor of her office, in which she and her fancy man canoodle nakedly beneath the national flag. I’d be very surprised if this patriotic frolic will offend the voters. The last thing the Australian electorate want is a frustrated woman who obviously isn’t getting any to boss them around.

“What about Hilldog?” I hear you ask. I personally think it’s too late for Mrs Clinton to revive her flagging political career by having sex with someone. People would think she was doing it to win votes rather than because she genuinely enjoyed it. It’s time for the Democrats to pass the torch to a new generation of highly-energised hotties with the drive and ambition to get on top and stay there. If Chelsea isn’t interested, the heir apparent has got to be Monica Lewinsky. There aren’t many women in America with her record of selfless service.

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Powerful women

 

A study has revealed that powerful women are just as likely to cheat on their spouses as their male counterparts. Someone should tell Angela Merkel. She’s been chancellor of Germany for over five years and still hasn’t put out. Could she be a dark horse who’s been quietly playing the field? I doubt it. A woman who’s getting laid frequently doesn’t look as tense and uneasy as Frau Merkel. The only kind of horse she is is a riderless one. 

When I mentioned this disappointing lack of Merkelian action to the manager of the safari camp, he grinned with a knowing look in his eyes. 

“She’s obviously not used to making the first move,” he said. “If I were one of Merkel’s aides, I would pay some young Wolfgang to bang her and let her take it from there. It only takes one polar bear to make a hole in the ice.” 

Beneath the vulgar language, I detected a valid point. It’s quite likely that successful women are too intimidating for men to proposition, so they have to do the chasing themselves. Such forward behaviour may not be in Frau Merkel’s repertoire of political skills. I’m tempted to invite her to the Congo for some tuition from my females, who have never been shy of grabbing what they want with both hands. My only worry is that the aromas and rhythms of the jungle might turn her into a sex maniac before she’d returned to human civilisation. A randy woman in a community of apes might provoke gross and unnatural acts. 

A powerful woman who shouldn’t need any assistance from her hairy cousins is Julia Gillard, the prime minister of Australia. The first thing to note about her is her flame red hair – clear evidence of the orang-utan gene, which implies a high sex drive. I don’t know anything about her private life, but I’d bet you a hundred coconuts that she’s a tiger in the sack. Living in Australia should also help her extramarital ambitions. The country is full of larrikin men who wouldn’t think twice about cornering Ms Gillard in an official function and offering her the use of their didgeridoo. It’s true that her voice isn’t very sexy – she sounds like a frigid schoolmistress, in fact – but that may be part of her political act. There’s no point giving the leader of the opposition an erection when debating changes to the superannuation laws. 

I’ve deliberately left Mrs Clinton until last. She’s obviously entitled to cheat on her husband, given the brazen debauchery that he has got away with in his long and distinguished career. My suspicion is that she’s one of those women who is only interested in very clever men, which narrows the pool considerably. She needs to go somewhere with a high egghead density to improve the odds of finding a suitable paramour. 

Perhaps I'll contact the Oxford Union to suggest they debate the motion “This house believes that Osama had bigger balls than Obama”. Honour would demand that Hilldog accepted an invitation to participate, obviously speaking against motion. Although most of the boffins in Oxford are untouchable with a barge pole, there’s always the chance that she’ll bump into a smooth-talking hustler like my friend Dicky Dawkins, who could teach her a thing or two about genetic recombination. It’s a match made in heaven. 

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American Pie

I hear that little Jimmy Oliver has been making waves in the USA. Schools in California have banned him from their kitchens for fear of being shamed into feeding their children his “pukka” recipes. Someone should tell them that celebrity chefs like Jimmy are basically entertainers. You can watch them sprinkle and toss over a hot stove without the slightest intention of attempting to emulate their culinary feats. Jimmy is a sprinkler and a tosser par excellence, but British fans who want to taste his food just go to his restaurant. 

The nature of Jimmy’s true calling should have been obvious when he appeared on the Letterman show and beguiled the audience with his cheeky cockney banter. His most memorable quip was that vanilla ice-cream contains an ingredient found in a beaver’s anal gland. Full marks to Jimmy for doing his homework and knowing that “beaver” is a rude word in America. There are no beavers in England, of course, only otters and ferrets, which are not particularly rude unless you put them down a man’s trousers. 

I’m sure Jimmy means well in promoting healthy eating across the USA, but the premise of his transatlantic odyssey seems flawed to me. The problem with food in America is not its quality but its quantity. On my first visit to the country, I was surprised to discover that the restaurants served portions large enough for my appetite. While this was excellent news for me and other 500-pound gorillas, watching humans gorge themselves on this abundance made me feel queasy. When I noticed the overfed diners trying to squeeze their wobbly behinds into their capacious motor vehicles, my queasiness turned to revulsion. The USA, it seemed, was the Land of the Fat and the Home of the Bulbous. 

Not everyone in America is overweight, of course. President Obama cuts a particularly pantherine figure as he prowls across the prairies, announcing his intention to run for re-election. I can’t help wondering whether the lardish folk of middle America resent being governed by such a svelte figure. Maybe Barry could win them over by promising to give them the secret of his slim waistline, which I suspect has something to do with sleeping with a black woman. His new campaign slogan might be “Vote Obama if you want to see your genitals without the aid of a mirror”. 

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I will be strictly neutral in next year’s presidential election. A gorilla does not meddle in human politics or hand-out endorsements willy-nilly. I have no idea who the Republican candidate will be, but I’m sure he’ll measure up to Barry in his vital-statistics – or her vital-statistics, for that matter. Let’s not forget Sarah Palin, still wowing her supporters and keeping in shape with her dumbbell exercises. If she wins the nomination, she’d be a much stronger candidate if she divorced her husband and persuaded Hilldog to be her running mate. The thought of two ladies cohabiting in the White House might be just the kind of gimmick that voters find irresistible.

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Fossey reborn?

My females are oddly fascinated by the Republican Party’s candidate for vice-president. Not out of feminist solidarity, which is of no concern to lady gorillas. No, the reason is much stranger. They seem to think that Sarah Palin is the spitting image of the late Dian Fossey, a woman revered by gorillas throughout Africa. I’ve put up their pictures so you can judge for yourselves. If their features are even in the same game reserve I’ll chew my toes off.

Between you and me, gorillas aren’t very good at telling human faces apart – I only got the hang of it after years spent in the circus. I recently brought a copy of Hello! magazine to the jungle. One of my females snatched it from me and studied a picture of Sienna Miller intently.

“I’m so glad she’s back in the limelight!” she hooted. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Dolly Parton.”

Heh! I didn’t have the heart to tell the poor deluded apette that Miss Parton was then having her boobs deflated at the Betty Hoover Clinic.

With the election approaching, I am already getting irritating e-mails asking me who I’m endorsing and similar such nonsense. This is when I have to thump my chest and remind people that I’m a gorilla. Your problems are not our problems, and the only American dream in these parts is the one the manager of the safari camp had after watching a movie called Forrest Hump (available on DVD). Until the candidates announce their policies for ridding the jungle of snakes and crocodiles, who gets into the White House is none of our business.

I suppose if I were forced to choose I’d back the ticket with the most body hair. Unfortunately this is pure guesswork when one of the candidates is a woman. Senator McCain is probably a hairy old dog when he takes off his vest, but who knows what Mrs Palin does to her feminine tufts? As a mother of five, one would hope that she doesn’t over-prune, but you never know the state of a woman’s foliage until you’ve seen her in the sauna. That is not a favour I’d care to ask of her, given that her husband looks like the Neanderthal type who might make a fuss. He has nothing to scare me, of course, but one doesn’t want to come between a man and his wife merely to further one’s reputation as a political pundit.

The wildcard in this election is supposedly the “Hilldog factor”. Will supporters of Mrs Clinton be so bitter that that they’ll vote Republican in the hope that Old Pop McCain quickly pops it and they’ll get their madam president after all. Well I’ve got news for them. I know for a fact that Hillary could never have won if she’d been the Democratic nominee. The Republicans, you see, had infiltrated a super-hot velcro-vixen into her campaign team, with the sole mission of seducing the former first lady and telling the world’s press what her cha-cha tastes of. And you can bet the lying hussy would have claimed it had some horrible flavour like "pickled herring" or "essence of hermit crab". No presidential bid could have survived a political bombshell of that magnitude – the merest glimpse of Hillary’s jodhpurs would have made voters cry “Euw!” and pop a mint inside their mouths.

How do I know all this, I hear you ask? Because a fat American bloke in a baseball cap told me so while guzzling Budweisers at the safari guesthouse. Let no one say that Gorilla Bananas lacks credible sources for his scoops.

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