Third time unlucky?

Call me a finicky ape, but I don’t like the look of Kate Winslet’s new husband. He reminds me of a baboon I once thrashed for making indecent suggestions to my females. Before you accuse me of being a bully, I gave that baboon a good hiding out of kindness. Had I not done so, my females would have taken the law into their own hands and crushed his testicles like almonds.

Now, back to Kate’s husband: he does not particularly resemble a baboon; nor, to my knowledge, are his gonads in danger of being pulverised. But there is something baboonish about the expression on his face. That gawping countenance suggests he’s easily distracted and lacks self-control. It makes me wonder whether he was ogling the bridesmaids when he uttered his marriage vows.

Perhaps Kate considered him a worthy suitor because he’s a nephew of Richard Branson, the British entrepreneur. If so, she ignored some fairly clear warning signs, the most obvious one being that he’d changed his name to Ned RocknRoll. What kind of arsehead would adopt such a name? My guess is that his brain stopped developing at the age of 15 and he still dreams of being the lead singer in a pop group. He no doubt fantasizes about being chased by delirious groupies, eager to make a lollipop of his todger.

But why I should care about the character of Kate’s latest husband? The manager of the safari camp made this point when I brought up the subject with him:

“You’re not her Hairy Godfather!” he jeered.

“We gorillas are avuncular,” I replied. “I don’t have to wait until she’s my bosom buddy before showing concern.”

“If Kate’s bosom and me were buddies, that joker she married would be sleeping on the couch!” quipped the manager.

An idle boast, to be sure, but I can’t fault his appreciation of Kate’s jahoobies. I myself have often expressed admiration for her luscious figure, so ideally suited to the task of making babies. She already has two children sired by different fathers, a clever reproductive strategy of putting each egg in a different soufflé. My worry is that soufflé No.3 will turn out to be a raspberry fool.

Now that she’s married the blighter one must wish her well, of course. Maybe she’ll train him like a dog, taking him for walks and giving him treats when he obeys her commands. Ned is actually the perfect name for a dim-witted mutt who isn’t sure where to bury his bone. Hopefully, he’ll learn that his mistress knows all the best hiding places.

As luck would have it, a new gadget has been invented for humans taking the canine path. It is a tail that wags to the pulse of the wearer when attached to his or her rump. This device could allow Kate to monitor her husband’s moods, and put him on a leash when the neighbourhood bitches were in heat. In this day and age, a happy marriage requires investment in the latest technology.

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Tongue penance

I was shocked to hear news of an Indian man who cut off his tongue in a futile attempt to persuade his wife to come back home. It seems he had abused her with insults so vile that she packed her bags and left with their young child. He then tried to make amends by removing the offensive organ, but his wife has yet to respond to his gesture of remorse. Let’s hope she does something more dignified than clapping her hands and dancing a jig.

I have to admit that I’ve never seen a living creature cut off its own tongue. It must be the damnedest thing. Can you imagine the willpower and dexterity required to keep your tongue stuck out while attempting to sever it with a sharp implement? Someone should invent a miniature guillotine that could slice it off cleanly without all the yanking and hacking of a manual excision.

As an act of atonement, what he did was worthless. There’s no point blaming your tongue for the sins of your mind. His wife must be less likely than ever to make up with him now. I don’t suppose they were into French kissing and oral sex in a big way, but there are other aggravations for a woman with a tongueless husband. Having to answer all the phone-calls and haggle with street vendors might test her patience. And interrogating her husband about his activities would be impossible unless they both learned sign language.

I hope this will be a lesson to all men who are abandoned by their wives for engaging in malicious banter. Amputating your tongue won’t win her back. If you want to show contrition, put on a gimp costume with a ball-gag and give your wife the key. Nothing says sorry like putting your fate in the hands of the person you offended.

As one marriage ends prematurely, another one continues beyond the grave. I refer to the Serbian woman who gave instructions for a likeness of her vagina to be carved on her grave to discourage her husband from pursuing other women. Before dismissing her as a crazy old bat, have a look at the engraving on her headstone (picture below). If it’s an accurate depiction, she had a remarkably handsome vulva with pleasing floral symmetry. I doubt her husband will find another woman with a coochie so cute.

The problem, of course, is that looks aren’t everything where sexual organs are concerned. No man ever satisfied his urges by admiring a beautiful vagina. This Serbian widower may have fond memories of his wife’s snatch, but when push comes to shove he’ll want something more inviting than an etching on a tombstone. Visiting the grave will just make him yearn for the real thing.

Is he worried that his wife will haunt him, as happened to the butcher in Fiddler on the Roof? He shouldn’t be. Ghosts can’t do a thing when a man and woman are horizontal. They just float around frustratedly, looking for something to blow on.

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The Love Butt

A story from Miami is making me happy and sad at the same time, which is quite an achievement for an everyday human tale of yearning and fulfilment. I don’t usually experience such a complex mix of emotions unless mating elephants are involved. 

It concerns a 43-year-old divorcee called Jenny Fizgerald, who in spite of her name is a sultry, olive-skinned Latina (see picture). Believing that her flat backside was discouraging potential suitors, Jenny forked out 10,000 dollars for buttock-reshaping surgery, which gave her a delectably peachy rump, very ripe for the plucking (see picture). Shortly afterwards, she got engaged to a 42-year-old hombre called Carlos, who has the face of a compulsive booty-ogler. 

“I know my new bum made this happen!” said Jenny delightedly. “And I know Carlos loves it too – he’s always staring.” 

Is that all he does? Perhaps Jenny’s ladylike modesty prevented her from mentioning more tactile forms of appreciation.

"Her bottom is why I noticed her in the first place,” agreed Carlos. “Without it we might never have spoken." 

He's got a point. A fabulous arse is a great ice-breaker. Whenever my old friend Smacker Ramrod saw an attractive woman at a party, he used to circumnavigate her discreetly before attempting to make conversation. A clear mental picture of her posterior helped him find the right words and focus on the task at hand. Some may call such behaviour sexist, but let us acknowledge a simple truth: most women would rather have their bottom admired than listen to a lot of guff about the price of oil or the G-12 summit. I’m sure that’s even true of female politicians like Hilldog and Frau Merkel. 

So why did this story make me feel happy? I should hope it’s obvious. Gorilla Bananas cares about his human cousins and wants them to achieve their dreams. It tickles the cockles of my heart that Jenny has transformed her life by acquiring a pert behind. 

“I finally feel great and sexy about myself,” she said. 

I bet she does. Full marks to Jenny for realising that it’s never too late to boost your self-esteem by improving the texture of your tush. It thrills me that her delectable derrière solicited a marriage proposal from a man she deemed worthy of the honour. And although I’m not 100% certain about Carlos, I can’t fault his taste in tail, or deny the happiness his regard for the rear has brought. In the words of the Indian chief whose name I forget, my heart soars like a hawk! 

And yet there is also sadness. 

As a gorilla who lives in the wild, nestling snugly in the bosom of Mother Nature, I can’t condone artificially enhancing the bottom by cutting and sucking and pumping it. If Jenny had told me about her plans for cosmetic surgery, I would have invited her to stay with my tribe for a couple of months. There is no better way of getting your butt in shape than living like a gorilla – our tree-climbing, kick-dancing, flesh-massaging lifestyle goes hand-in-hand with a rock-solid rump. Some of us had buns of steel before steel was invented.

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Another girl

I don’t feel snubbed because Paul McCartney didn’t invite me to his wedding. Paul knows full well that we gorillas find such occasions arse-scratchingly tedious, and didn’t want to put me in the awkward position of having to decline. The only wedding I’ve ever attended was that of my circus comrade, Smacker Ramrod, who needed a minder to stop his old school chums from de-bagging him at the reception. After the ceremony, his blushing bride combed the confetti out of my fur. A male gorilla will agree to most things after he’s been groomed by a female. 

Now that Paul is happily hitched, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you about the counselling I gave him after his divorce from Heather “Moneybags” Mills. 

“I dunno, GB,” he mused. “If only we could do things as simply as you gorillas.” 

“Don’t be an ass, Paul, you belong to a different species,” I replied. “Just make sure the next one you marry has plenty of cash, so if it doesn’t work out you’ll agree to call it quits. And pick a woman who’s above child-bearing age. You’ve already sired a decent brood, and don’t want another baby selfishly hogging your wife’s udders.” 

The new Lady McCartney could not have fulfilled my specifications more perfectly if I had picked her myself. Ms Nancy Shevell, aged 51, is the heiress of a road haulage empire. She is attractive; she is demure; her eyes do not have daggers in them. In short, she is the kind of woman who wouldn’t throw her hairdryer at you for saying her new hairstyle made her look like a yeti. 

When I discussed Paul’s nuptials with the manager of the safari camp, he affected a sceptical tone:

“This Nancy woman sounds a bit bland to me,” he said. “Some men prefer a hot-headed wife who curses and bites before you pin her to the bed.” 

“You’re confusing humans with apes,” I replied. “A man married to a dragon-lady can only fantasize about bed-pinning scenarios. Attempting such a manoeuvre in real life would most likely provoke a stiletto in the groin.” 

Is it possible for a man to find happiness in the arms of a bad-tempered woman? Count Dracula’s wives were obviously crazy bitches from hell, yet they seemed quite devoted to their sinister and remorseless husband. They also got on tolerably well with each other, which doesn’t always happen in polygamous situations. 

I would guess that the cornerstone of their relationship was the total absence of jealously. The Count was perfectly free to pursue any virgins her fancied, even if it meant going on extended vacations with limited opportunities for correspondence. And his feral spouses didn’t hesitate to sink their fangs into any stray man-flesh that wandered into the castle grounds. The Count, indeed, often played the pander to their grisly debaucheries. 

Clearly there’s a lot wrong with vampires and their lifestyle wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste. But you have to admire the mature way they dealt with their relationship issues. 

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Hello Goodbye

I am delighted to hear that Paul McCartney is getting married for the third time. As a friend of the gorilla nation, he is entitled to the warmest of good wishes from me and my females. The omens for this union are good. Paul has wisely gone through a five-year courtship rather than rushing, lemming-like, into wedlock with a woman of avaricious and cantankerous disposition. His fiancé’s first name is Nancy, one of the select few that Macca has used in one of his own compositions. Admittedly, the woman in the song was a saloon bar dancer of easy virtue, but one is entitled to poetic license in making such artistic analogies.

It reflects well on Paul that he is still willing to get hitched after the ignominy of his second marriage. Let us never forget the calumnies that emerged from the poisonous tongue of Ms Heather Mills, who accused her husband, among other things, of being obsessed about her breasts. The woman was clearly unfit for matrimony – an honest wife would have thanked her lucky stars that he wasn’t obsessed about another woman’s breasts. Yet in spite of the humiliations and pecuniary losses he suffered at the hands of his ex-wife, Paul is now taking the plunge with another woman (albeit of very different temperament, one hopes). All those sappy romantic lyrics he wrote must have genuinely come from the heart. 

As one musical man marries, another brawny one divorces. It gives me no pleasure whatever to hear that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wife has given the old beef steer his marching orders, even though he has no one to blame but himself. I don’t know what possessed him to declare that mulatto women have the best behinds. His wife, who is not a mulatto, must have burned with indignation as she strained her neck to inspect her own tush in the bedroom mirror. As a woman from the Kennedy family, she might have forgiven Arnie the odd affair, but she could never tolerate him publicly scorning her charms. Apparently his remark was made on the spur of the moment, after a Brazilian samba dancer nudged him with her buttocks, but there are times when a husband should salivate in silence. A wise man never comments about the first thing that rubs against his thigh. 

Arnie’s troubles remind me of the advice I gave Smacker Ramrod before he popped the question to his current lady wife. My devoted circus buddy had asked me whether he ought to inform his intended of his past dalliances and debaucheries, of which there had been many. 

“Don’t do it, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “However much she says it doesn’t matter, it will always prey on her mind! Just smile enigmatically if she asks. Let sleeping cats lie!” 

I am pleased to say that Smacker followed my advice and has remained happily married for almost a decade. As we say in the jungle, the truth is like a hornet sting – only give it to creatures with a thick hide. 

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Crime of passion

News arrives of a man who is marrying a woman who stabbed him. He seems to be a pretty shrewd judge of character. When a female of the same species tries to kill you, she either loves you or hates you (unless you are a spider, when she’s just hungry). The problem for the male is deciding who is which and which is who. In this case, the man seems to have got it right. He and the woman were lovers before she caught him showing an old injury to her best friend, which required him to drop his pants. Misunderstanding what was going on, his jealous sweetheart bayoneted him from behind with a sharp instrument. She fortunately missed his vital organs and he made a full recovery.

You’ve got to respect a man who forgives his girlfriend for smiting him hip and thigh. Heaven knows why he wanted to expose a previous wound to another woman. Let’s hope he can keep his newest one to himself. We gorillas pick up a fair number of scrapes and scratches in the course of our jungle activities, but have no wish to draw attention to them unless we are seeking medical attention. Female gorillas simply aren’t interested in how many scars you’ve got beneath the fur.

I sincerely hope the man won’t regret his decision. To be on the safe side, I’d advise him to put on an army flak jacket before getting into the marital bed. The woman is clearly madly in love with him, but she may have unresolved issues floating around in her subconscious. Just one flashback of the pants-dropping incident might re-ignite old animosities and prompt her to reach for the scissors on the bedside table. Even so, the judge was surely right not to send her to prison. She obviously poses no danger to anyone but her fiancé, and he seems quite happy to take his chances.

“I don’t think this would ever happen again,” was his confident assertion after she walked free with a suspended gaol sentence.

His optimism does him credit, but he may have underestimated the stresses and strains that occur in the marriages of today. Even if he’s learned his lesson about exposing himself to other women, his future wife will still have to put up with his annoying habits, whether they be snoring, wheezing or the hawking of phlegm. The continual drip-feed of such provocations might cause her to snap no less violently than she did when she caught him with his pants down.

What the woman really needs is a way of releasing her pent-up anger regularly, so the pressure doesn’t build up until she erupts like a volcano. Smacking him on the head with a rolling pin is the traditional method, but his head is already a funny shape and she might not know when to stop. I would favour lending her an electric cattle prod once a week, so she can get it out of her system without maiming the man or exerting herself unduly. It won’t be much fun for her spouse, but it beats getting stabbed.

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