Language lessons

I’m glad to hear that Brazilian prostitutes are preparing for next year’s football World Cup by learning English. The manager of the safari camp laughed like an idiot when he heard about this:

“Why are they bothering when there are well-known hand signals for their services?” he guffawed.

“Not all whores are as cheap as the ones you’d be willing to pay for,” I retorted. “Some men appreciate a little conversation before getting down to the nitty-gritty. And possibly during it as well.”

“Oo-hoo, a gorilla pimp!” chirped the manager sarcastically. “Can I meet your bottom bitch?”

“My bottom bitch is a female gorilla,” I replied. “She’d give you her hand signals whether or not you asked for them.”

That shut him up.

I’m proud to say that I’ve always had a good rapport with women who work in the sex industry. Once they realise I’m not a potential client, they stop all their phony posturing and unburden their souls to me. (Yes, prostitutes do have souls: the religious fundamentalists are wrong about that.) After listening patiently to their confessions, I do what I can to soothe their anxieties and encourage their cultural leanings. Some of them are quite intelligent. I’ve had interesting discussions with prostitutes about wind turbines, vegetarian cuisine and the latest douche technology.

Not everyone who visits Brazil during the World Cup will consort with call girls, of course. Some men are so fanatical about football that they’d rather watch their team score a goal than score themselves with a woman. There’s been an on-going debate within the footballing fraternity about whether certain memorable goals were better than orgasms. It’s not a question I feel competent to address, other than to note that the answer depends on the quality of the orgasm as well as the quality of the goal. Clearly, some humans have better ones than others, even before resorting to strangulation and apples in the mouth.

One man who won’t be visiting any hookers for a long time is the West Indian security guard who shot himself in the penis. This unsavoury incident occurred when he was loitering suspiciously inside a parked car. What surprises me is that the police are now holding him under guard in hospital. Even if shooting one’s penis is a crime in Trinidad, it is surely its own punishment. There’s no need for a judge and jury to rub salt in the wound.

Let’s hope the doctors can arrange a dick transplant for the fellow. There must be a suitable donor from all the hundreds of young men who die in motorcycle accidents. Although Freudian theory suggests that bikers are under-endowed in the todger department, this is probably a good thing for transplant surgery. Men should not be given an incentive to replace their private parts for cosmetic reasons.

This brings us neatly to the question of what should be done with Ron Jeremy’s penis if he suffers an untimely demise. My preferred solution would be turning it into a party horn that children could blow-up when they visit the Smithsonian. On second thoughts, that’s vile, but do you have a better suggestion?

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Fartball

There is no bigger imbecile than the football referee. The latest moral outrage perpetrated by one of these nincompoops was to caution a player for breaking wind. Someone should teach these card-waving clowns the ABC of human flatulence. Men, unlike apes, cannot conjure up farts at will (although quite a few have mastered the art of sneaking them out inaudibly). The idea that a footballer deliberately tooted his arse-trumpet to distract an opponent is absurd. Not even one of the beer-bellied yokels who play for Burridge United would be capable of that.

I am sorry to say that the vulgar sport of football continues to attract followers in Africa. Even women, who ought to know better, were among the spectators at a recent match in the Congo. Their ululating and hip-wiggling goaded the players into ever more bodacious acts of ball juggling. The one good thing about the African game is that the referee is always bribed by the hosts. This allows the match to proceed in an orderly fashion with very little of the swearing and gesticulating than bedevils the sport in England. If everyone expects the ref to be biased, no one is disappointed by his decisions. It is regarded as a legitimate part of home advantage.

Now you’re probably thinking that Gorilla Bananas spends a lot of time talking to people about farts. I certainly know more about them than Professor ‘Whoopee’ Cox of Salford University, who thinks he’s an expert in the field because he owns a cushion that makes six different varieties of lavatory noise. Yet we gorillas have no need to flaunt our knowledge of digestive gases, gained through patient years of guffing from a diet rich in fruit and vegetables. I never mention the subject at the safari guesthouse unless our visitors first bring it up, in which case I’m happy to deal with their queries and problems.

I was briefly lost for words, however, when a cross-eyed man with dandruff asked me if my females were any good at queefing. I pursed my lips and scratched my nipples before answering.

“The coochie of a female gorilla is as tight as a drum,” I said. “No air will come out unless you first put some in.”

“Do you think they’d let me have a go with a bicycle pump?” he asked.

“You’re welcome to try,” I said. “But I couldn’t guarantee that you’d leave the jungle with both testicles intact.”

He decided, on reflection, to experiment with his sex doll instead.

You’d be amazed at the number of e-mails I get from men with bizarre fantasies involving female gorillas. A lot of them complain that women aren’t able to squeeze them as tightly as they want.

“Female gorillas are moody beasts,” I explain. “If you ask them to squeeze you they might hang you upside down and watch you squirm. First try your luck with female body-builders.”

Women with bodies like the young Arnold Schwarzenegger (give or take a penis) should be capable of giving them what they crave. The fly in the ointment is that most of these ladies probably want to be dominated in bed, like any normal woman. Whether they're humans or apes, getting female primates to do what you want is always a challenge.

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