Christmas lawsuits

I arrive in London for Christmas and decamp at Dr Whipsnade’s residence. During an afternoon stroll in Regents Park, I see a man in dark glasses and a grey fur coat, feeding the waterfowl what appear to be pickled onions. On nearing I recognise him as my old circus chum, Bernie Anus, and greet him affectionately:

“Bernie, you enormous bumhole!” I exclaim. “What the devil are you feeding those ducks?”

“Nothing you would you enjoy, you hairy-arsed hulk!” he replies amiably.

After this exchange of pleasantries, we repair to a nearby pub to renew our old camaraderie.

“Bartender!” I cry. “A tankard of your finest ale for my friend, Mr Anus! I will have a glass of pineapple juice, if you please.”

I ask Bernie how the clowning business is going.

“It’s mostly children’s birthday parties these days,” he says. “It pays OK when I’m not being sued.”

“Who on God’s Green Earth would want to sue you, Bernie?”

“Last summer I had a birthday gig in The Dorchester,” he explains. “When I walked into the lobby in my costume, a little dog jumped on my shoe and tried to nip my ankle. So I removed a can of spray-paint from my jacket and dyed its head green. It ran off whimpering.”

“That taught the little varmint!” I snigger. “What happened then?”

“Nothing at first. I went to the kiddies’ party and did my act to huge acclaim. But when I was leaving I got collared by a couple of policemen. It turned out that the dog belonged to some snooty old cow with a title. Lady Magnolia Handjob, wife of the Earl of Wank, or words to that effect. They took me in for questioning but released me without charge.”

“I should hope so! I couldn’t imagine a clearer case of self-defence.”

“Indeed. But soon afterwards I got a summons to appear in court to answer a civil suit. Lady Magnolia was seeking damages for the physical and emotional pain inflicted on her precious mutt, as well as the cost of cleaning its head.”

“Did you abscond? I would have given you sanctuary in the Congo if you’d asked.”

“Oh I turned up all right, and in my business suit too. His Worship took one look at me and said ‘You’re not giving evidence in my court wearing that ridiculous costume!’. So I looked him up and down and replied: ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’. He fined me for contempt and I had to pay Her Ladyship five thousand as well.”

“What can I say, Bernie? The law is a rectal probe for the rich and powerful to use on the hapless peons they oppress. May this Lady Magnolia and her vile pooch fall into a barrel of monkey piss.”

“Thank you, GB. I would have called you as a character witness if you’d been here.”

That evening, I reflect on another case in which a wealthy woman has bent the law to her will. Jennifer Lopez has persuaded a judge to issue an injunction preventing her former husband from releasing a tape of their marital frolics. It seems that he and Ms Lopez enacted a spanking scene when relations between them were still cordial.

Yet the ruling did not stop her ex-husband from publishing a transcript of the dialogue, mere gossip not yet being illegal. As luck would have it, a reliable source has provided me with a copy of this document. In normal circumstances, I would respect the intellectual property rights of Ms Lopez and keep it to myself. But Christmas is a time to share, as well as to redress the inherent biases of the legal system. A short excerpt is given below.

J-Lo: Oh, I’m such a naughty girl!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Don’t stop until I’ve learned my lesson!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Make my big ass red!

Ex: Thwack!

J-Lo: Smack me hard, Dr Badfinger!

Ex: Thwack.

I like the ‘Dr Badfinger’ line best. It shows imagination.


The Japing Ape wishes his readers a Merry Christmas and will return at the start of the New Year.

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Dame shortage Down Under

An Australian mayor has received a fierce tongue-lashing for inviting “ugly Sheilas” to settle in his town. The tactless oaf has only himself to blame. Yet it appears that he acted from the best motives, believing that homely spinsters would find it relatively easy to bag a husband in his isolated mining community. Furious female residents have nevertheless demanded his resignation, calling him “a pig”, “a ruffian” and “a shit-eating wombat”. They seem to think he was implying that they had the sex appeal of the duck-billed platypus. The point he was actually making was that the men of the town, who currently outnumber the women fivefold, are in no position to be choosy. The same mathematical logic would apply whether the existing female population were beauty queens or warty-nosed crones.

A more valid criticism of the mayor is that his invitation is likely to be ignored. Women have their pride, and I can’t see many of them migrating to a place acclaimed as the Hagsville of the Australian mining belt. The fellow obviously hasn’t a clue about the advertising game. If you’re desperate to buy a breeding mare, you don’t tell the world that any fat-arsed nag with four hooves will do. Instead, you place an advertisement in the leading horsey periodicals asking for top-class fillies to mate with the finest thoroughbred stallions. Everyone knows that people exaggerate in these notices, and you’ll get plenty of enquiries from the owners of mares about to end up as cat food. As we say in the jungle, “if it’s fertile, it’s fuckable”.

Now the root cause of all this hoo-hah is the human obsession with facial features. The funny thing is that my friend Smacker Ramrod, the circus vet, once told me that in his experience pretty women made disappointing girlfriends. He found them demanding in everyday life, passive in bed and not nearly as gorgeous as they had appeared from a distance of twenty-five feet. The women he had the fondest memories of were the ones he wasn’t initially sure that he fancied. They were the girls who worked hard on their all-round game – many were brilliant conversationalists; others were gymnastic in the sack; a few could play the ukulele. This led me to surmise that you can’t really separate personality from appearance in the human mating game. A women who is beautiful and shrewish will eventually be seen as unattractive by her lovers, just as a woman who is plain and sweet will find men warming to her appearance as well.

All this human angst about physical appearance makes me glad to belong to a species where looks don’t matter. Not the look of your face, at any rate. A firm rump with a generous covering of hair is a pre-requisite for most of the good things of gorilla life, including sex with mates of your choice, status in the higher echelons of society and ringside seats at the python-wrestling tournaments. Gorillas don’t fall in love at first sight, but if we did it would be a glimpse of a furry rump that triggered the emotion. A gorilla version of Mickey Dolenz (himself an honorary ape in many respects) would have sung:

Then I saw her tush, now I’m a believer

I don’t suppose many men will fall in love with a woman’s arse, but if Jennifer Lopez’s doesn’t do it for them I doubt anyone’s will.

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