British women are bored

A survey has revealed that two-thirds of British women are completely bored with life. I can’t say I’m surprised. Back in my circus days, I was frequently accosted by English girls who wanted to escape their humdrum existence.

“Can I join the circus, GB?” they would ask.

“It takes years of training to perform in the ring,” I would explain.

“I don’t have to be a performer, I could be your personal assistant,” they would say.

Tempted as I was by such propositions, practical considerations forced me to decline:

“That’s a very kind offer, but you wouldn’t be entitled to a trailer and I couldn’t keep you as a house pet. Here is the card of my mentor, Dr Whipsnade, who is the patron of a society for aspiring young ladies. Give him a call and I’m sure he’ll set you on the right path.”

I regretted not being able to help them myself, but at least I placed them in good hands.

When I told the manager of the safari camp about the survey, he had no doubt at all about the cause of their discontentment.

“Of course they’re frustrated!” he exclaimed. “Most British men prefer watching snooker on TV to pleasuring their wives!”

“The survey made no mention of sexual dissatisfaction,” I said.

“Trust me, Bananas, when a woman says she's bored that’s code for ‘my husband doesn’t go down on me’.”

“Your decoding abilities astound me,” I replied. “You ought to run a translation service for couples with communication problems.”

I was being sarcastic, of course. Oral sex is nothing to be sniffed at, but it isn’t the answer to all life’s problems. Nor is it good for the health if it goes on for too long. There must come a point when the recipient feels like a lemon that’s had the juice sucked out of it. In any case, the contentment gained from satisfying carnal desires is ephemeral. It does not provide an antidote to a deeper malaise of the spirit.

If you ask me, these bored British broads need to get back to Nature. Look at my females. Their lives are as free and unfettered as birds in the sky. They roam; they forage; they pluck fresh fruit from the trees. If they get the urge to run amok, there’s not a power on Earth that can stop them. They don’t have to worry about snoopy neighbours or disapproving fishwives. The only malicious gossips in the jungle are parrots, and they can be silenced by sticking a knob of toffee on their beaks.

My advice to any world-weary women is to spend a few months on an uninhabited tropical island. Live off shell fish and coconuts; strip off and swim in the ocean; climb trees until your rump is as brown as a berry and as firm as an apple. The experience will change your whole outlook on life and make a new woman of you. If you’re still bored after that, you probably need a good seeing to.

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Uncurbed enthusiasm

A heated argument breaks out at the safari guesthouse about the TV comedy show Curb Your Enthusiasm. It concerns an episode in which the petite black comedienne, Wanda Sykes, breaks off her engagement with a rap singer on discovering that he is “running around town eating pussy”. The ladies present are of the opinion that Wanda had acted appropriately, denouncing her fiancé as a slimy-tongued philanderer who ought to have his lips sown together. The male guests take a contrary position, arguing that Miss Sykes had overreacted. She should have realised, they say, that a rap singer is a breed of man for whom eating pussy is like eating popcorn – a snack of negligible significance. One of them goes so far as to suggest that Krayzee-Eyez Killa had proved his fidelity to Wanda by reserving his own private parts for her exclusive satisfaction.

You are doubtless now expecting to hear of my own contribution to this debate. “Gorilla Bananas surely intervened to smooth ruffled feathers and cool heated tempers,” I hear you say. “He devised a compromise formula that coaxed the bickering humans into renewing their cross-gender camaraderie.” Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. My lips, on this occasion, remained firmly sealed (if not actually sown together). Life is not an episode of The Waltons and there are times when the antagonists must settle their differences without my arbitration. I cannot always play the part of a hairy King Solomon.

What I was motivated to do was watch the episode in question on the HBO video-on-demand channel. One must always examine the evidence before making judgements about alleged sexual misconduct. In the opening scene of the show, Mr Killa recites the lyrics of a new composition:

If you say anything
You’ll beg me to die
Coz I’ll make you suck my dick
Then I’ll nut in your eye
I’ll stomp on your world
As if my name is Godzilla
I’m coming for you motherfucker
I’m your Krazee-Eyez Killa

In virtually his next breath, he informs Larry David that performing oral sex on women of diverse ethnicities is one of the great passions of his life:

“You’ve got all different flavours of pussy,” he explains. “The best pussy to eat is Asian pussy.”

The man clearly believes that oral sex is a panacea for life’s problems – a heinous punishment to inflict on an enemy in one context becomes a gourmet delicacy in another. Such are the nuances of ghetto culture. Yet natural justice demands that we consider the matter from the viewpoint of his fiancé. For a wife to have the taste of her private parts compared unfavourably with countless Asian women is undeniably a gross humiliation. Had I been betrothed to Mr Killa, I simply wouldn’t have stood for it:

“If the taste of my pussy isn’t good enough for you I’ll serve it to someone else!” I would have declared frostily.

On the other hand, it does seem rather harsh to dump a fellow for habits he presumably acquired during his bachelorhood. Shouldn’t a man contemplating matrimony be given a chance to mend his ways?

So on due reflection, I would have advised Wanda to take Krazee-Eyez back on condition that he gave up his promiscuous pussy-eating compulsion. A mere declaration on his part would not suffice. To prove his sincerity, he would be required to eat raw chillies for a month in order to cleanse his palate and permanently numb his taste buds. Purged of his ability to appreciate the subtle flavours of a woman’s cha-cha, he would surely be cured of his indecent obsession. Even the most hardened addict can learn to kick the habit.

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