Mars dick doodle

So the Mars Rover has drawn a penis on the surface of the red planet. The folks at NASA are stressing it was an accident:

“The image created was the unintended outcome of its exploratory manoeuvres,” announced a spokesman gravely.

Or in other words, one small cock-up by a machine, one giant cock on a planet.

I hope they don’t make the Rover scratch out its doodle. The Martian willy could be a major attraction for future space tourists, comparable in appeal to the horny chalk-man in Dorset. Perhaps the Rover should draw a giant vulva alongside it, to give equal emphasis to the male and female genitalia. Otherwise visitors might think 21st century humans were dick-obsessed maniacs like the ancient Romans, who considered the vagina a mere receptacle for the all-conquering cock.

It wasn’t just the Romans who were fond of phallic artefacts. The stiffy was venerated by most pagan civilisations until Christianity came along and told them it was embarrassing. The time has surely come for modern-day Christians to admit their forefathers made a mistake and reclaim this ancient custom. Obviously, there’s no point asking the Pope to rehabilitate the phallus – he would immediately suspect it was a trick to make him incriminate himself. It would have to be a leading Protestant, pure of body and spirit.

Do I have anyone in mind? Indeed I do. I nominate Sir Cliff Richard, one of the few world-famous Christians with no skeletons in his trousers. It wouldn’t be difficult to get him on board. I’d remind him of the psalm which says “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me”, which is as phallic as it comes in Holy Scripture. I’m pretty confident this would spur Cliff into action – he’s the kind of guy who would glue his arse cheeks together if the Bible told him to.

Now I’m aware that Cliff has his fair share of detractors who think he’s the uncoolest person on the planet (Earth, not Mars). Some horticultural students recently jumped on the bandwagon by claiming that his music killed off the plants when they played it in a greenhouse. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he thought of this dubious experiment, he predictably expressed confidence in its results:

“Of course his music makes plants shrivel and die!” he declared. “It’s had the same effect on my erections on more than one occasion. You’re a mad hairy fool if you think he’s a suitable patron for the phallus!”

I dismissed his remarks as the ravings of a Satanist. It doesn’t really matter what Cliff’s music does to organic matter anyway. No one’s going to play it during the Festival of the Sacred Cucumber. The important thing is that he’s incredibly popular with Christians, who would follow his lead on the role of the todger in spiritual life. Imagine those pious, earnest faces offering prayers to a mighty dong made of marble and granite. If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face, nothing will.

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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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Electric butt plug

Somebody sent me an email urging me to read a book called Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t know who the emailer is, but the main argument he made was as follows:

It’s the perfect book to write about in your blog. The main character is a woman who enjoys having an electric plug stuck up her bottom!

I don’t know whether to believe this. Electric plugs come in many shapes in sizes, but none, as far as I know, is suitable for pleasuring a woman’s dorsal orifice. I often get emails from practical jokers trying to bamboozle me with outlandish hoaxes. Another possibility is that my emailer is woefully ignorant about anal devices and confused an electric plug with a butt plug. Here is the substance of my reply:

Thanks for the suggestion, but it doesn’t sound like something I’d want to read. I’m not a fan of inserting plugs into sockets which haven’t been electrically tested. What you describe would be futile unless the woman could generate an alternating current in her rectum.

So much for Fifty Shades of Grey, now for a book I might actually read. I discovered it by accident during my anthropological studies and its title is God’s Doodle: The Life and Times of the Penis. As a work of non-fiction, it should be full of hard facts rather than descriptions of deeds which stretch credulity. All its Amazon reviews have 5 stars and the female reviewers found the book funny. One assumes they laughed at the pictures as much as the words. Here is what a couple of enthralled ladies wrote:

“I was laughing out loud and that was just at the introduction! Appeals to both men and women, my husband loved it too. I'll be buying more copies to give as Xmas gifts. Excellent!” – JessieSmurf

“A great book, really funny, I would recommend for yourself or as a present. Well written, this could be the next big thing.” – Jacqui

It’s a pity more people didn’t buy it for Christmas: it sounds like a great stocking stuffer.

A lot of men get annoyed when women laugh at their willies. They shouldn’t. Laughter is often a mask for other emotions, such as apprehension, surprise and discomfort caused by moisture in the panties. Smacker Ramrod, my old circus buddy, once told me that a woman he’d slept with had giggled at his dick.

“Don’t worry about it, Smacker,” I said. “Far better that she giggled than screamed or called the police.”

Unlike being sodomised by an electric plug, laughter is a normal, healthy thing for a woman to do. It relieves stress and exercises vital muscles, including those in the vicinity of the coochie. That’s why women who laugh frequently are more relaxed and easier to get into bed. If I were a man, I would happily garnish my todger with pretzel rings and icing sugar to make a woman laugh. As Martin Luther King said, you’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.

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Keyhole art

On balance, I think that the new peeping tom exhibit at London’s National Gallery will be a force for good. For those of you who aren’t avid followers of high culture, this work of art consists of a bathroom in which naked women are viewed through carefully positioned peep holes. The women are models, I should hasten to add, and fully aware that visitors are spying on them. One hopes their skin retains its natural oils and juices after being washed and dried on a continuous loop.

Why do I approve of this exhibit? Because I believe that giving peeping toms a lawful outlet for their perversion is better than letting them run amok in respectable society. As well as causing their victims much anguish and annoyance, these fiends have to be hunted down at considerable cost in time and labour. I speak as a gorilla who was dragooned into anti-voyeur duties during his circus career. The female acrobats expected me to guard their changing and showering facilities, as well as apprehending any rascally swine who dared to spy on them.

Although I was happy to protect the girls from intruding eyes, and dealt with offenders as mercifully as the dictates of justice allowed, I would much rather have been reading comics or harvesting root vegetables or competing in toe-wrestling tournaments. No gorilla on his deathbed has ever said “I wish I’d spent more time chasing peeping toms”. Even the biggest dullards of our species have better things to do with their leisure.

I have often wondered why humans, of all the animals, feel shame on exposing their private parts. I think there are two reasons. First, there is considerably more variety in their size and shape than in other species. Imagine a world in which all humans had standard-issue genitalia. Would a man be ashamed of displaying his todger if it were identical to every other human todger? I think not.

The second reason is that humans have less control over their sexual arousal than other species. This is obviously true of men, who dread being discovered with an involuntary stiffy, even when they are fully clothed. Yet there are also women, so I’ve heard, who can be tricked into unwanted nipple-hardening and dilation of the vulva. This is a major biological weakness, because the animal in heat is an easy target for predators. Hence clothes are an essential cloaking mechanism for humans.

The models in the National Gallery have clearly learnt to master their shame, but I’m not particularly keen to watch them in action. Looking at naked humans through peep holes is not the gorilla way. I would much rather view the exciting banana exhibition being held in a museum in Somerset.

The banana is a noble fruit which feels no shame when you peel it. Yet curiously enough, the man whose artefacts are being displayed at the museum was inspired to start his collection by the sight of a woman furtively eating a banana. Why in the name of all that’s white and tasty would a woman be embarrassed about eating a banana in a public place? I admit to mystification.

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Northern exposure

I had thought that nude hiking was an exclusively German pastime, but apparently it goes on in England too. A man called Nigel Keer has been arrested by an off-duty policeman during a naked ramble through the Yorkshire countryside. The policeman, who was fully clothed, made the cop after noticing the “disgusted face” of a woman walking her dog. 

The policeman’s behaviour looks fishy to me. Why would an officer of the law apprehend a naked man because he saw a woman’s disgusted face? Wouldn’t the sight of his wobbly buttocks be sufficient grounds to take him in for questioning? I suspect this so-called policeman is either a nudist sympathiser or a closet nudist himself. He obviously has no objection to people running around naked unless they happen to upset women walking their dogs. The suspicion of police collusion dangles from this case like a limp piece of flesh. I hope the judge gets to the bottom of it. 

The hiker has attempted to justify his unclothed caper by saying that he was unemployed and had nothing better to do: 

“It was just something I did to pass the time,” he explained. 

I have a certain amount of sympathy for his line of argument. If you’re out of work, going for a naked stroll is far better for body and spirit than watching daytime TV or playing marbles. And as Mr Keer pointed out, there’s a huge difference between honest, bare-arsed nudity and flashing. There was no reason at all for the dog-walking woman to frown disgustedly at him. If that’s how she reacts to a naked man minding his own business, what would she do if some foul wretch pulled down his pants and leered at her? Have a nervous breakdown? 

Of course, it’s possible she was disgusted by the man’s body because she found it unsightly. I suspect there are many women who never look at naked men unless they are gazing at statues of Graeco-Roman gods, which exhibit a perfection of form that few real men can attain. It is also evident that these statues are quite modest in the todger department, which in the classical world was viewed as a sign of refinement. Artefacts retrieved from Pompeii indicate that the Romans thought big willies were ludicrous, befitting donkeys rather than men. I dare say there are still many English spinsters who have no idea how grotesque and droopy a man’s genitalia can be. 

In view of these mitigating factors, I think Mr Keer is fully justified in appealing against the fine of 315 pounds sterling imposed on him. It’s all very well to sympathise with the woman he offended, but what about his feelings? It can’t be very nice to have someone frown at your private parts as if they were horrible deformed things. Perhaps the best solution would be for Mr Keer to meet the woman fully-clothed and assure her that he meant no affront. The court could then provide her with some photos to convince her that what she saw was nothing out of the ordinary.

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Circus of Horrors

I was very displeased to hear that a snooty Oxford college has banned The Circus of Horrors from its May Ball. Although I never appeared at such minor events in my own career, I resent this disdainful treatment of my fellow circus performers. Furthermore, I coached a few members of this company when they were struggling apprentices, it being my hairy paw that put them on the path to success. Those who insult the gorilla’s protégés insult the gorilla too. 

So what in the Circus of Horrors has upset the weak stomachs of the college authorities? One of the artistes, known as Captain Dan, is a dwarf who pulls household appliances with his private parts. Let me say at once that he is not one of those that I tutored. I never taught trainees to do anything with their todgers other than keep them in their pants. Dwarves being dwarves, however, they often took the expression of their creative impulses into their own hands. 

It’s worth pointing out that there is nothing particularly shocking about a dwarf’s genitals. They are no smaller, on average, than those of a normal-sized man. Yet this very quality makes them appear unnaturally large on their undersized bodies. Women are often caught out by this optical illusion and unduly flustered as a result. 

There was one very bad episode of gnome exposure in the circus I worked in. During a pay dispute with the management, the dwarves decided that withdrawing labour would be a less effective form of industrial action than flashing at female performers shortly before they appeared in the ring. They were right. The acrobat team had a particularly bad time of it, struggling to maintain their composure while executing their gymnastic feats. Those who think that performing artists should not be affected by such things should try it themselves before talking. Forming a human pyramid is no easy task with the image of a dwarf’s dangly bits burned into your mind. The management soon acceded to their pay demand. 

None of the above justifies barring Captain Dan from the Oxford ball. Although some female students might find his act disturbing, they will not be required to perform acrobatics shortly afterwards. If the sight becomes too much for them, they can scream and bury their faces as they might when watching a horror film. I doubt many of them would get a good view of the taut appendage in any case. A dwarf with a vacuum cleaner attached to his knob is only fully exposed when the eye line is perpendicular to the direction of motion. 

The Circus of Horrors should treat this snub with the defiance it deserves. I shall advise them to hold their own unofficial ball on the croquet lawn of a nearby stately home. This will upstage the staid college balls, bereft of penile-towing dwarves and other abominable freaks. As we say in the safari business, the squeamishness of the few should not preclude the titillation of the many.

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Art imitates porn

A correspondent draws my attention to a 10-minute film showing a pair of students copulating in Newcastle. Frankly, I would rather watch baboons do it. Only humans are vain enough to believe their sexual antics are visually appealing. I can assure you that no wild gorillas have ever asked for royalties after being filmed having it off in the jungle. That’s because people who enjoy watching such things are boobies, and extorting cash from boobies would be undignified.

My only interest in the film would be to discover whether the couple did it with their socks on, which is allegedly common practice in Newcastle. I wouldn’t blame them to be honest. The town is swept with chill winds from the North Sea, which infiltrate every nook and penetrate every cranny. I wouldn’t want to be distracted by cold feet when making jiggy-pokey in such an environment. Not that I would ever go there, of course. The place has very little vegetation and is populated with unnaturally nocturnal humans. It’s bad enough having your sleep disturbed by parrots.

Now the maker of the film is a 23-year-old student called Joseph Steele, who imagines himself to be an artist. A friend of the co-stars, he obtained their consent by promising to show the work in a trendy gallery. Hence, the discerning audience would engage with its profound social message rather than hooting with glee or playing with their private parts.

“It is absolutely art because I put it there and said it was,” declared the Jean-Luc Godard of Tyneside.

I suppose that settles it then. He claims that everyone who saw the film found it “erotic and inspirational”, but impartial observers report seeing a lot of shocked faces. These art-loving types are very easily shocked if you ask me. Anyone who is perturbed by the sight of human sexual activity needs to get out more, by which I mean out to Africa. When you’ve seen a raging bull elephant in musth, its swollen todger writhing like a snake, there’s not much that humans could do to startle you.

Perhaps I’ll commission Master Steele to direct a film that my females have been nagging me to produce, called Tarzan Was Our Toy-Boy. The script has already been written and it’s very avant-garde, with overlapping dialogue and naturalistic grunts and groans. The hairy ladies have already cast themselves as the declaimers of the title, but we’re still looking for the right Tarzan. Initially, I thought one of the whey-faced dandies in Beverly Hills 90210 would be ideal for the part, but they’re probably too old for it now. Whoever lands the role, we expect to produce a work of high feminist art which is a contender for the Palm d’Orifice at Cannes.

I shouldn’t leave you with the impression that we gorillas only make art in the hope of winning critical acclaim, or selling it for piles of dosh, like Damien “Daffy” Hirst. “Art for art’s sake” is our motto. Appreciate our creations with spontaneous delight rather than appraising them with the cold eye of the collector. Tomorrow, I’m going to rustle up some natural dyes and do some body art on a woman at the safari guesthouse who’s been longing to enjoy my brushwork. The one good thing about bare human skin is that it makes an excellent canvas.

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