A rump of royal renown

Princess Pippa, sister of England’s future queen, is bemoaning the fact that her bum is more popular than she is:

“It is a bit startling to achieve global recognition on account of your bottom,” she said.

Show a little gratitude, young lady. Your beloved butt has won you a book contract and a free dress from Stella McCartney. Not since Jenny Seagrove moved in with Michael Winner has a celebrity arse opened so many doors.

There is nothing wrong with having a famous behind. The average gorilla’s rump is more recognisable than his face. Not true of me, of course. My face became so well-known in my circus career that my arse got jealous of it:

“Why can’t I be the most popular part of your body like other gorillas’ arses?” it moaned.

“Because I am not like other gorillas,” I replied. “Be proud that you are an important member of the Bananas team. I could not succeed without your support, especially when I’m sitting down.”

My arse took comfort from my words and ceased its pathetic whining.

As for Pippa, I’m willing to bet that her boyfriend pays far more attention to her peachy posterior than he did before it became famous. He must spend hours rubbing his face against it and giving it the occasional smooch. Does he still spank it? I’m not sure, to be honest. It’s the first question I’d ask Pippa if we met.

A young gorilla once asked me why humans have no hair on their bottoms.

“Have you been watching internet porn?” I growled.

“Yes, GB,” he replied with downcast eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

“Because you have been honest, I will answer your question,” I said. “Humans have naked rumps so they can sweat more easily. Unlike us gorillas, they are constantly running from place to place to escape predators and train for the Olympics. This makes their arses very hot, which must then perspire to lose heat.”

“What does human sweat taste like?” asked the young ape.

“How should I know?” I replied. “Some say it is salty and acrid. But you must never lick a human bottom, which is an ignoble act in their culture and ours. Although bottom-lickers often prosper in human society, they are not respected and have no honour. Many of them work in show business management.”

Now you’re probably thinking that the advice I gave that youngster was an oversimplification. I admit it’s quite likely that licking Pippa’s arse would be seen as an achievement of great distinction in today’s world. The arse-licker might well become a celebrity in his own right, with the tabloids publishing pictures of him sticking out his tongue.

The point at issue, however, is what the judgement of history will be. Being the man who licked Pippa’s butt will sound a lot less impressive in the 24th century, when cadets at the Star Fleet academy are taking their exams. A wise man thinks about his place in history before licking the sweat off a tasty-looking tush.

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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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Rumpology

A voluptuous English woman at the safari guesthouse reveals the secret of her sex appeal.

“It all about balance, GB.” she explains. “I’ve got a huge arse, but it doesn’t matter because my boobs are equally enormous. My top and bottom parts balance each other out and make my waist look smaller.”

I nod in agreement.

“Yes, you’ve got to look at body shape in a holistic way,” I say. “Look at elephants. Their arses are absolutely massive but you never hear them complaining about it. There’s nothing wrong with a big behind if the rest of the body is in good proportion. I’m glad you’re not one of those women who hate their bums.”

“If I did hate my bum I’d ask you to spank it for me!” she says saucily.

“And I would be glad to oblige,” I reply. “However given that my paw would only cover a small portion of your hindquarters, the punishment inflicted may be slight.”

“On the contrary, GB, my naughty bottom would be chastened by your long-armed follow through!” she insists.

I thank her for the compliment and study the object in question as she saunters off. It wobbles a certain amount, and yet I wouldn’t change a morsel of it. There is something very engaging about a woman who is comfortable in her own body. As she approaches the end of her stay, I begin to harbour squalid thoughts of giving her juicy buns a good squeeze. It is fortunate that I possess a high degree of self-discipline in such matters.

Anyway, this full-bottomed female reminds me of a fortune teller I met in my circus days. He claimed he could foretell a person’s fate by examining their buttocks.

“Every crease, crevice and crater is imbued with prognosticative significance!” he declared grandly. “I have just examined the ringmaster and he has a cleft rump!”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked.

“Everyone has a vertical cleft, my dear ape, but few are privileged to have a horizontal one as well. In essence, there were four buttocks rather than two. The vulgar members of my profession call it the ‘hot cross bum’.”

“Well I never!” I exclaimed, amused at the ringmaster’s peculiar deformity. “Whatever does it mean?”

“The number four is generally thought to be unlucky in China, but in some dialects it sounds like ‘get fortune’. So the ringmaster is probably destined to have bad luck, with an outside chance of acquiring great riches.”

“That should keep him on tenterhooks,” I said. “However his only connection with China is his weekly noodle-fest at the Chu Chin Chow.”

“The wisdom of the Yellow Emperor is universal.” explained the rump-reader. “Would you like a quick appraisal on the house?”

“If it’s on the house, why not?” I replied, turning round and bending over.

“Hmm,” he mused. “Based on the thick covering of hair, I would say that you were a gorilla. Am I close?”

“Spot on!” I confirmed. “And to think I was sceptical about your powers!…phut… Oh I say, I’m sorry! It must have been the lentils I ate for lunch!”

“Fresh air, fresh air!” he gasped, staggering away. “Damn you, Bananas, open the door! You poisonous effusion is killing me!”

He survived to read more rumps, but was careful to inquire after his subject’s recent diet before future examinations.

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Meat for the girls

Leonardo DiCaprio has denied being a “piece of cute meat”. Someone should tell this conceited young man to wait for the compliment before pretending to reject it. It seems that Hollywood celebrities have been desperate to play down their sex appeal ever since Steven Spielberg narrowly escaped being sodomised by a stalker. But if DiCaprio is really the ugly duckling he claims to be, how is he able to command a fee of $10 million per movie? No film studio would pay that kind of money for an actor with a face like Porky Pig.

In fairness to Leo, he may not have been talking about his face. I wouldn’t blame him for trying to postpone the fateful day when he is asked to bare his buttocks for the camera. His fans will certainly feel cheated if he hasn’t done so by the age of 35, and perhaps start to wonder whether his derrière is not disfigured by some great bulbous wart. It’s curious how these fashions creep into the movie industry. No one ever expected Humphrey Bogart or Spencer Tracey to show his backside to his fans, but nowadays it is more or less de rigueur for the leading man.

I suspect the fad for rear-exposure was kick-started by the narcissistic mooning of Richard Gere in American Gigolo. Gere also exposed himself frontally in that movie, but mercifully this precedent never caught on in Hollywood. The reason, I should imagine, is that few women derive any pleasure from ogling a man’s “meat-and-two-veg”, as the English housewife calls it. For the lady of good taste, HMS Winkie is a gunboat to be felt rather than seen. The hindquarters, however, are an entirely different cut of beef. Many are the times I have witnessed women peering at the well-packed posterior of a strutting young buck. Female gorillas, I should add, are just the same.

Of course, there was a time when mooning was a tactic used by heterosexual men to shock or humiliate their rivals. The Scotch reputedly did it to the English before their famous victory at the Bannockburn. In my circus days, I was asked to umpire a tennis match between the ringmaster and the senior clown. Believing that the ringmaster had served long, the clown caught the ball in his hand and threw it back over the net. The ringmaster, infuriated by this presumption, was having none of it.

“If that was a fault, I’ll show you my arse!” he bellowed, glaring at the clown before looking in my direction.

I adjudicated in the ringmaster’s favour.

Given that it is now socially acceptable for women to admire the male rump, they ought to come clean and say what they look for in a bottom. The film industry deserves no less from its enthusiastic patrons. Which of the following would be their ideal?

(a) an enormous billowy pumpkin, rough and cratered like the lunar surface;

(b) a smooth, tight, boyish pair of buns;

(c) a muscular pair of upper thighs, suggestive of the pelvic power of a rampaging stallion.

My guess is that the human female, being a complex and subtle creature, would like a combination of all three to suit her changing moods and evolving preferences. Such versatility, alas, is surely beyond the ingenuity of Mother Nature.

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