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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The Great Condom Robbery

The Japanese are furious about the theft of a shipment of 700,000 condoms from Malaysia. Apparently, they were an extra thin variety, designed for heightened sensitivity in the oriental todger. I don’t blame them for being upset. You can’t deprive Japanese men of their battle helmets without causing them to howl savagely and unsheathe their ceremonial swords. The perpetrators, if caught, should be publicly sat on by sumo wrestlers until their flesh resembles sushi. You’ve got to make an example of such rogues to deter future outrages. 

I wonder what the thieves intend to do with the stolen merchandise. 700,000 seems too many for private use, even if the gang were all Brazilian. But attempting to sell them on the black market would play into the hands of undercover policemen, who spend entire careers waiting for such opportunities. They must have devised a clever use for them that no one has thought of before. Never underestimate the ingenuity of condom bandits. 

The silliest alternative use for condoms was suggested to me by a tourist from Birmingham, a city in England renowned for inhabitants who talk mildly amusing twaddle. He said they’d be a vital accessory in a naturist resort. 

“Let’s say I’m in a nudist colony,” he explained. “It’s only a matter of time before I see an attractive woman who gives me a stiffy, which would be pretty embarrassing when I‘m naked. Putting a rubber on it would protect me from staring eyes.” 

“It’s not exactly an effective disguise, though, is it?” I replied. “Everyone would know what was inside.” 

“That’s beside the point,” he insisted. “When a woman does aerobics you can see the shape of her body inside the leotard, but it’s not the same as watching her doing it with her tits hanging out.” 

“You have a very sharp mind,” I said, ignoring the obvious flaw in his argument. “I hope you’re putting it to good use in Birmingham.” 

I listened politely as he told me about his job as an electronic organ salesman. 

If you don’t want to use them as balloons or face masks, the next best thing to do with surplus condoms is recycle them. My friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, said the rubber in them should be used to make the gloves women wear when washing dishes. (Men wash dishes too, but few of them are gay enough to wear gloves while doing it.) Rather than hiding their origin, he said they should be marketed as ‘made from recycled condoms’. 

“Do you really think that would be an attractive selling point?” I asked. 

“For most women, no,” replied Smacker. “But there’d definitely be a niche market among the sexually-liberated ball-breaker demographic. They’d buy the gloves just to differentiate themselves from prissy women who think it’s dirty to touch anything that’s been in contact with a man’s dick.” 

It’s a pity his idea wouldn’t work for the stolen Japanese condoms, which have never been in contact with a man’s dick. 

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The Pope in Africa

A reader has asked me to comment on Pope Benny’s recent visit to Africa. I admit I’ve been avoiding the subject for fear of stirring ill-will among my human cousins. Rancour is an emotion that should be kept a safe distance from the bosom. I certainly wasn’t one of those who hooted and heckled the high pontiff when he announced his opposition to condoms. To my way of thinking, a man’s sexual habits are his own private affair. If Benny is happy for his todger to take a dip without a life jacket, who am I to interfere? The nuns who visit him are surely capable of asking to see the results of his latest STD check-up before accepting his blessing.

A pair of American women staying at the safari guesthouse told me they would be joining a feminist protest against the Pope and his reactionary views. They showed me a box of custom-made condoms, each with a picture of Benny’s head on it. After inflating them like balloons at a papal rally, their intention was to burst them shouting “Pop the Pope!”

“My dear ladies!” I exclaimed. “Blowing and popping is not even recognised as an insult in Africa. People would assume you were celebrating someone’s birthday. In this part of the world, humans express strong feelings either by dancing or throwing spears. Since you lack javelin expertise, I suggest you shake your bottoms disdainfully at the Pope during his sermon.”

“What shall we do with the condoms?” they asked.

It was a fair question. Leaving them in the box would have been a waste of good rubber.

“Why not insert peeled bananas inside them before your protest?” I suggested. “You could hold one in either hand and crush them in your fists at a climactic point in the dance. The symbolism would be obvious to everyone. Benny would have to double his dosage of Viagra after seeing that.”

They seemed satisfied with my advice and gave me a book to read called Postmodernism and Gender Relations in Feminist Theory. I promised to study it carefully.

Far more troubling to me was the Pope’s insidious attempt to convert witches to Roman Catholicism. The witch doctor is a friendly neighbourhood apothecary in Africa. Some are nefarious frauds and impostors, but to condemn an entire profession because of a few bad apples isn’t playing fair. How would Benny like it if I said all Catholic priests were pederasts?

I had very good relations with the English witch community back in my circus days. Nowadays they are all good witches, the bad ones having been burned a long time ago. I would describe those I knew as boisterous ladies with an aptitude for handicrafts, herbal medicine and naked outdoor dancing. It would be no exaggeration to say that we got on like a house on fire. Convinced that I was some sort of hairy wizard, they invited me to one of their outdoor dances. I went there purely as an observer, of course. Gorillas do not boogie with naked women.

On returning to the circus, my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, asked me where I had been. I immediately told him of the wondrous spectacle I had witnessed.

“I bet most of them were hairy old lesbians,” he sniffed.

He was obviously jealous.

“They were not, Smacker,” I replied haughtily. “And since you have attempted to demean them, I would point out that: (a) there is nothing wrong with being hairy; (b) the elderly do not participate in such events, which might be injurious to their heath; and (c) you are the last person who should use the word “lesbian” in a derogatory sense given your own taste in erotic entertainment.”

He graciously withdrew his remark and I promised to introduce him to the foxier witches in my acquaintance.

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