Pet care

Did Justin Bieber abandon his monkey? Everyone seems to think so, but the facts look inconclusive to me. The monkey was taken away from him when he arrived in Germany because its papers weren’t in order. You could argue that Bieber should have put his foot down and threatened to leave the country, but the German authorities are responsible for instigating the estrangement. You can’t blame Bieber for not accompanying his monkey to its quarantine cell and living off nuts and berries. A growing boy needs milk and cookies to keep his chest fluff growing.

It was foolish of the Germans to act so high and mighty. They’re unpopular enough in Europe for squeezing the assets of the Greeks and Cypriots. At the very least, they should have found a good foster home for the monkey instead putting it in a cage. I would have given the creature to Lilo Wanders, the celebrity transsexual, whose lavish home is equipped with the latest restraining devices for monkeys and other stray beasts. I doubt such measures would have been necessary, though. The most agitated monkey would be soothed by resting its head on Miss Wanders' hormonally enhanced bosom.

One has to wonder whether things will ever be the same between Bieber and his simian pet. The monkey has no knowledge of German quarantine laws and probably thinks it was sent to boarding school. It may well be happy to return to Bieber, but it’s bound to feel resentment when it reflects on its ordeal. How will it avoid comparing Bieber with Michael Jackson, who treated Bubbles the chimp as an inseparable companion and bedmate until death did them part? Such reflections might incite it to take revenge by secretly scouring its anus with Bieber’s toothbrush. Monkeys have a gift for sly and sneaky sabotage.

In truth, it’s rarely a good idea for a human to have a pet monkey. The species are too similar to avoid unrealistic expectations. Even a confirmed pet lover like Paris Hilton couldn’t make it work. As she explained to her fans:

“My monkey was really cute but used to screech and go crazy whenever he saw me naked. I think he wanted to touch my boobs or something but was too confused to ask. I had to lock him in the closet whenever I wanted to watch TV in the nude. So I put him up for adoption and found him a new home in a zoo.”

The ironic thing is that Justin himself would make a much-loved pet – he seems to inspire the same feelings as a rabbit or a faun. Teenage girls can be very sentimental about shy delicate creatures that like to be stroked. Perhaps Paris Hilton should adopt him as her human pet and teach him how to handle all the negative publicity he’s been getting. One assumes Bieber is man enough to see her naked without freaking out like a monkey. He can always close his eyes if he gets too flustered.

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China syndrome

I can’t understand why a Chinese airline has introduced a smelly armpit test for its pilots. Hainan Airlines will not allow anyone with a malodorous underarm to fly its jets. Why in the name of Confucius did they not introduce this test for the flight attendants, who unlike the pilots actually mingle with the passengers? All too often, my blameless olfactory organ has been offended by human body odours while travelling in a commercial jet. These unwelcome aromas were usually emitted by the cabin crew, extending their arms to open overhead lockers or leaning across my seat for no good reason.

It is possible, of course, that Chinese pilots make a habit of hobnobbing with the passengers. I remember being accosted by one such character on a flight from Hong Kong to Taipei – he burst out of the cockpit when the plane had reached cruising altitude:

“Ho! GB!” he exclaimed. “Tell me about your life in jungle. You gorillas always fucking eh? Haha!”

“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I asked.

“No worry about that!” he replied jovially. “Autopilot fly plane and co-pilot keep eye on everything. Unless he playing with his dick! Haha!”

“That’s all well and good, but I’d rather you were in the cockpit doing your job,” I said. “After we land, I’ll be more than happy to grant you an interview.”

So he returned to his post, muttering something in Cantonese which I could not translate.  

I shouldn’t give you the impression that I view the Chinese as ninnies, because they’re coming up with some brilliant innovations that ought to be copied in the West. One such idea is the angry room, invented by restaurant owner Zhou Jun, which is a place where staff can abuse pictures of their boss. It is hoped this will defuse their pent-up frustrations and diminish the urge to empty a pot of hot soup over Mr Zhou’s head. Note the pragmatic attitude of Chinese bosses, who don’t mind being hated as long as their workers are happy and productive.

The nearest thing to the anger room in the West is the Justin Bieber sex doll, an amazingly lifelike replica produced specifically for men who have “issues” with Justin. It’s a sad fact that Bieber’s macho persona makes a lot of guys feel puny and worthless, disabling their capacity to engage in manly pastimes. Some of them react to their low self-esteem by wearing ladies’ underwear. Others experiment with butt plugs. It is thought that acquiring an effigy of their bête noire (and sodomising it at leisure) will enable them to rediscover their sense of self-worth. This will allow them to return to their ranches and lumber yards to explore their virility with renewed vigour. 

Speaking as a gorilla who would pose no threat to Justin if we met in a dark alley, I welcome this attempt to deflect the animosity he inspires. Any invention that prevents Bieber from getting buggered is worth its weight in gold.

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Madonna lets it hang out

Madonna has deliberately displayed her breast at a concert in Istanbul, provoking wild screams of delight from her delirious fans. The antics of a desperate woman. Or do I mean “the antic”, given that only one boob was exposed? Singular or plural, I’m not impressed. I’ve seen baby baboons emit more dignified cries for attention.

The reaction of the audience was entirely predictable. Any diva can drive her fans nuts by exposing her flesh. If Madge really wants to prove something, she should show off her rack at a dairy farmers’ convention. Men who milk cows for a living know a high-class udder when they see one.

A naïve chimpanzee once asked me why Madonna didn’t just retire on all her millions and live on an island paradise, gorging on fresh fruit and sitting on her boyfriend’s face.

“What a naïve chimpanzee you are!” I exclaimed. “No amount of money can replace the thrill of live performance in front of adoring fans. Adulation like that makes you higher than a parrot!”

“How come you know so much about it?” asked the chimp impertinently.

“Because I used to perform in a circus, you impertinent chimp!” I replied. “I assure you my fans were no less devoted than those of Madonna.”

Dumbfounded by my answer, the chimp fingered his navel and wandered off.

Don’t get the wrong idea about my circus act. The hero-worship I got was not achieved by displaying an organ or gland. We gorillas are mellow apes who shun behaviour that might provoke a hysterical reaction.

The manager of the safari camp thinks Madonna’s eccentric behaviour is a response to her rivalry with Lady Gaga.

“She looks at Gaga and sees a younger version of herself,” he declared. “People her age don’t like that. It reminds them of their own mortality.”

“That’s an unusually perceptive remark from you,” I remarked. “Have you been reading something?”

“Yeah, The Complete Idiots’ Guide to Psychology,” he confirmed.

To my way of thinking, any rivalry that provokes a 53-year-old woman to bare one of her breasts is a destructive one. It can’t be helping Gaga either, who is a confused young woman in need of a good role model. The world of popular entertainment doesn’t need a tit-flashing competition between two of its leading lights.

If you ask me, Madonna should end this pointless feud with a bold and generous gesture. Let her offer to adopt Miss Gaga as her daughter. Rather than exposing her bosom on stage, make it a comforting resting place for Lady G’s troubled head.

Becoming family would allow them to perform together, by which I mean singing duets rather than doing anything lewd or incestuous. Would it make them the first mother-daughter band in history? Apparently not. An informed source tells me that a country music duo called ‘The Judds’ has that honour. No matter. They could always break new ground by inviting Bieber to join them in a mother-daughter-puppy combination. The sight of little Justin frolicking with his mistresses would tug the heartstrings of every pet owner.

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Bieber paternity suit

The manager of the safari camp shows me a picture of the woman who is claiming that Justin Bieber is the father of her child. 

“Look at her!” he demands in wide-eyed incredulity. “Why would a woman like that have sex with a scrawny teenage boy? She must be 6 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier!” 

“You don’t understand the mentality of the infatuated fan,” I reply. “The excited groupie loses all sense of propriety in the presence of her idol. I experienced this first hand in my circus days.” 

“You don’t say!” jeers the manager sarcastically. “I hope you were gentle with them, because women aren’t built like female gorillas!” 

“As gentle as a lamb, manager,” I answer indulgently. “They left my embrace with not a hair out of place.” 

The manager squeaks effeminately and plays with his hair, but is unable to engage in further repartee. Freed from the distraction of his facetious banter, I study the Bieber story in greater depth. 

The woman at the centre of the case is a 20-year-old blonde called Mariah Yeater. She alleges that Master Bieber invited her backstage after a concert and offered her the honour of popping his cherry. He declined to use a condom (she says) because he didn’t want his first sexual experience to be like paddling in Wellington boots. After 30-seconds of breathless coupling, Bieber was a spent force, and disengaged shamefacedly from his concubine. Apparently, he had expected to pound away for 50 minutes like Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. Children often get unrealistic expectations from what they see in movies.

The only thing one can say for certain about this tale is that it’s either true or false. It’s a logical dichotomy that cannot be avoided. Bieber has vehemently denied everything, claiming that Miss Yeater is a hoaxer and an embezzler and not his type. His bodyguards have backed-up his story, pointing out that they are trained to prevent licentious hussies from invading Justin’s personal space and ravishing him for nefarious ends. The maligned woman has tearfully stuck to her story, portraying herself as the delicate rose who got pollinated by an aggressive little wasp. 

The dispute will soon be resolved by a paternity test. If Justin does turn out to be the father, it will clearly have implications for his career. I would advise him to re-style himself as ‘Bullet-pants Bieber’, the badass rap artist who knocked up the skank ho who tried to make him her bitch. And he shouldn’t fret about the speed with which he consummated the endeavour – 30 seconds is probably par for the course in the annals of backstage shagging events. 

If the baby doesn’t have the Bieber DNA, Miss Yeater must be punished for her false and treacherous tongue. If I were passing sentence, I would order each of her thighs to be inscribed with a tattoo, one of King Kong and the other of Godzilla. It would be a brave man indeed who dared to venture between those raging monsters. 

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