The Austrian school

I do hope someone nominates Ylva Maria Thompson for Businesswoman of the Year. This visionary lady has established an international sex school in Vienna, where students will be encouraged to practice their lessons in mixed-gender dormitories. Frau Thompson has been quick to refute suggestions that her school is a glorified bawdyhouse for swingers and exhibitionists: 

“Anyone who doesn’t take it seriously and fools around will be sent to my office,” she declared sternly. “And get a big spanking from the headmistress,” she forgot to add. 

What I like most about this venture is its power to transform the image of Austria, a country best known for giving the world Hitler and The Sound of Music. Both were profoundly anti-sexual. Let’s face it, no one was ever going to get laid in the von Trapp mansion with all those fresh-faced children running around the place, singing songs guaranteed to make a man dick’s shrivel. Can anyone imagine Captain von Trapp giving goody-two-shoes Maria a vigorous pounding? The thought makes me want to gargle with lemon juice to get the taste out of my mouth. As for Hitler, he was a mono-testicled voyeur who enjoyed watching women urinate, which doesn’t count as sex in this quadrant of the galaxy. 

Hopefully, people will now associate Austria with the school’s promotional video, in which smooth naked bodies paw each other to Ms Thompson’s authoritative voiceover. There is something deeply life-affirming about a sixtyish woman tutoring people in the finer points of fondling their erogenous zones. I bet she gives out instructions with the same calm self-assurance when being pleasured by her own fancy man. 

Now, most of the apes I know would consider giving sex lessons to be like teaching someone how to scratch an itch. Certainly, any human who offered gorillas mating advice would be hooted out of the jungle with his underpants pulled over his head. As an ape who prides himself on being a student of humanity, I have pondered the question of why humans, of all the primates, have to be taught how to do it. I believe the answer can be summed up in three words: the human female. 

Female apes, you see, have a well-defined oestrus cycle. When one of our females is in season, all the male has to do is puff out his cheeks and fire at will. Nothing much can go wrong when the plan of action is that simple. Women, by contrast, don’t have a season when they’re in heat, so men are never sure how receptive they are. Most women, in fact, have to be wooed and cajoled and petted and prodded before they’re ready for action. That’s why men have to be taught how to arouse them, and women have to be taught how to help things along without making sarcastic remarks or laughing at the wrong moment. 

This isn’t meant to be a criticism of women, of course. They may be complex, but then so are quantum physics and fluid dynamics. It’s all part of life’s rich tapestry. 

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Pamela's new position

My friend Pamela Anderson is begging me to help her become a UN goodwill ambassador. I got a call from her yesterday: 

“I want to do it so much!” she mewed. “Couldn’t you pull a few strings behind the scenes, GB?”. 

“I’ll try my best, Pammy, but don’t expect miracles,” I replied. “There is only so much a gorilla can do to influence the big-wigs of international diplomacy. Throwing my weight around recklessly would be counterproductive.” 

She gave me her loving thanks and expressed full confidence in my lobbying abilities. 

To be perfectly honest, I‘m not sure what a UN goodwill ambassador does. The only one I know anything about is Ginger Spice, who promoted the cause of sex education for the world’s rampant teenagers. Pamela would certainly be overqualified for that task, but her instruction videos have already been widely disseminated. Touring the world to give the same lessons in person would be a pointless exercise. On the other hand, it’s quite possible that she’s made new breakthroughs in the field. Never underestimate the creativity of a woman who named her breasts Pancho and Lefty. 

Perhaps I’ll write a letter to Banky-Moon, informing him of Pamela’s affectionate nature and well-rounded interpersonal skills. He seems like an earnest little fellow who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’m sure he’ll warm to the qualities of a philanthropic actress whose bosom is brimming with compassion. Even if Pamela doesn’t win the goodwill job, he ought to give her another position in his office. No prominent man wants people to think he’s biased against blondes. I can honestly say that Pammy is smarter than most of the elephants of the Congo Basin. 

Not all blond women are intelligent, of course. Hitler’s squeeze Eva Braun was a pitiful airhead. The Fuehrer, it seems, was attracted to women who wouldn’t give him backchat or point out the flaws in his bogus racial theories. Eva had the good sense, nevertheless, not to remove her knickers in public and keep schtum about her boyfriend’s peculiar bedroom tastes. 

Heaven knows what Adolf and Eva would have made of the German couple who had sex in a football stadium. Their lurid exhibitionism was an abject failure, because the crowd were too engrossed in the game to pay them any heed. They only got the attention they craved when an eagle-eyed steward told them that bonking each other wasn’t an acceptable substitute for the Mexican wave. They were later expelled from the ground after another insidious attempt at scoring in an offside position. 

What this episode proves is that sex will never rival football as a spectator sport. People who roar ecstatically when a goal is scored just don’t feel the same elation when they watch strangers copulate. A ball thudding into the back of a net is a far more powerful image than all the cum-shots, cum-faces and cream-pies one could muster in craziest orgy known to pornographic science. Don’t ask me whether that’s a good thing – my job is to observe, not judge.

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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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Natural gas

A geologist at the safari guesthouse tells me that the Earth’s atmosphere once consisted of noxious gases such as methane and ammonia. In effect, our planet was engulfed in a gigantic fart cloud.

“It’s a good thing no one lit a match,” I remark.

“There was no one around to light a match,” he says. “The only living creatures were micro-organisms in the ocean.”

“Just how long ago was this?” I ask through narrowed eyes.

“A billion years or so,” he answers. “And the gases wouldn’t have been combustible, you’ve got your chemistry wrong.”

I wonder silently how the hell he knows what happened a billion years ago. Even someone who had lived that long would have forgotten about it by now. There are very few humans who can remember the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party at London Zoo, which was discontinued in 1972. And his assertion that farty gases are not ignitable is certainly wrong – I have evidence which proves that they are.

A correspondent recently alerted me to a home video made by some college students. The opening scenes, in which a number of malicious hoodlums fart on the faces of their sleeping roommates, are not germane. I apologise for drawing attention to the behaviour of these humanoid skunks, whose lowly character is manifested in the hideous squeaky noises of their emissions. Farts like that are suggestive of a cowardly, sneaky nature. An honest, gorilla-like fart makes a low, rumbling noise.

Towards the end of the video, a couple of young ladies make an appearance and fart rather sweetly. After that, we get to the evidence. In a spirit of scientific inquiry, several fellows apply the naked flame to their flatulence. In each case, the fart burns with hues familiar to anyone who owns a gas cooker. It is the characteristic flame of the combustion of methane, which progresses according to the following chemical reaction:

CH4 + 2O2 = CO2 + 2H2O

Yes, Gorilla Bananas knows his chemistry. Apologies for showing off like this, but after mentioning the geologist’s ill-informed remark I needed to set the record straight. If he is reading this, I hope he is feeling sheepish.

Now the fascinating thing about methane is that it has no smell – the poo-ish odour of the fart is caused by hydrogen sulphide, which is useless as a fuel (although very effective in stink bombs). If someone could find a simple method of separating the flatus into its component gases, college boys and other enthusiasts could develop a thriving cottage industry. As the saying goes, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

The last thing I want to say about farts concerns a pathetic incident involving the Austrian police. It began when a 19-year-old lad called Hansi Sporer broke wind audibly at a music festival. Unfortunately for him, a pair of passing police officers heard the fart and took umbrage, apparently believing it had been discharged specifically to greet their arrival. They then slapped a fine of 50 euros on the boy, complaining that they had been “humiliated”. Did you ever hear of such a pair of sissies? Heaven help the Austrian police if all it takes to break their spirit is a fart. If Hitler were in a grave (rather than scattered in various pieces around Russia), he would surely be turning over in it.

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Dikipedia

I am astonished to find myself referenced in Wikipedia. The following text appears in a discussion about Adolf Hitler amid the reference-desk entries on Christmas Day:

“There are plenty of web pages that proposed that Hitler was the most evil human being that ever lived, e.g. [1]”

The footnote links directly to a post I wrote over two years’ ago, in which I did not argue that Hitler was the most evil human that ever lived. I merely short-listed him in the top three. The silly clots must have linked to my essay without reading beyond the first paragraph. Once again, the bogus scholarship and slipshod methods of this electronic encyclopeestain are exposed.

It’s a pity the dilettante who referenced my piece didn’t study it properly, for he would have found a profound meditation on the nature of evil, the flaws in consequentialist moral theories, and the unparalleled wickedness of Captain Black, Mysteron agent (pictured above).

It’s annoying to have one’s argument misrepresented, and I regret that this is typical of the way humans behave when tackling a controversial subject. They pretend to know more than they actually do; they cite sources which don’t say what they claim; they hiss and piss like snakes in a hissing-and-pissing content. That’s why I choose my words very carefully when commenting on topics that agitate my hairless cousins.

Here’s an example of what I mean. A retired British army major asked me a question about the European Union last year. He said that although he’d voted to join Europe over 30 years’ ago, he was now having second thoughts. Apparently, a Bulgarian man had stared at his wife while massaging his groin in Weston-super-Mare. (I assumed the Major wasn’t referring to his own groin, as he would have surely whacked the man with his cane.)

“You seem like a wise ape, Bananas,” he said. “Do you think we British should leave the EU and banish the Bulgarians from our shore?”

It would have been all too easy to answer him off the top of my head, clouding the issue with spurious waffle about the Mousetrick Treaty, Mandy Peterson and the integrity of the British sausage. But I refused to countenance such a masquerade and replied as follows:

“Frankly, Major, I don’t know. This is not a question that can be settled by wisdom alone. One must first assemble the facts and then weigh the pros and cons. How many groin-rubbing Bulgarians are counterbalanced by one Polish builder? How does the meat content of the British sausage compare with its German counterpart? Which course of action would most annoy the French? I’m afraid you will have to sort this one out for yourself.”

The Major nodded gravely in appreciation of my honest circumspection. “There is much in what you say, Bananas,” he replied, “but who can be trusted to give us the unvarnished facts?”

I stroked my chin and answered as follows: “As I see it, Major, no one with a strong opinion can be trusted, even if that opinion happens to be correct, for strong opinions originate in gall bladder. Seek out the diffident scholar, pottering about in the college library, who studies the current squabbles of humanity as if they were battles between Romans and Carthaginians.”

The military man thanked me for my advice and drew up a target list of universities. For my own part, I hope that I am never asked to adjudicate a human dispute. It is forbidden for the gorilla to change the course of human history, and vexatious for him to check all the sources to determine who the bigger humbuggers are. If it ever came to pass, I would be forced to put on my black circus robe and hold court, picking apart the evidence submitted by both sides – but under no circumstances would I wear a wig.

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