Jurassic gases

British scientists are claiming that the dinosaurs polluted the atmosphere with their digestive gases. I have no reason to doubt this, but it seems like an insensitive thing to say about creatures that suffered a mass extinction through no fault of their own. Suppose I visited the graves of the scientists’ ancestors and inscribed the following words into each headstone:

The evidence suggests that this human was a colossal farter who stunk up the neighbourhood.

I bet they would feel insulted and humiliated. However flatulent your ancestors were, you don’t want it advertised to the world.

I’ve never understood the point of this kind of science anyway. The dinosaurs are gone, so let them rest in peace. What purpose is served by raking over the ashes and speculating about their bodily emissions? However copiously they broke wind, it is of no concern to the Earthlings of today. The looming perils of our Age were not caused by someone guffing 70 million years ago.

An infinitely more beneficial scientific breakthrough has occurred in the field of medical research, where biochemists have discovered that the saliva of a lizard can protect diabetics from the deadly diseases they are vulnerable to. These scientists deserve a hearty pat on the back, courtesy of my hairy paw.

One has to wonder, nevertheless, how the lizard spit could be safely harvested. Are they planning to kidnap lots of lizards and trick them into salivating by dangling fresh centipedes in front of their noses? If so, they ought to have more respect for the dignity of a proud reptile. There are surely more ethical methods. I once made a wild lizard spit by sneaking up on it shouting “Stand to, you ugly devil!”. But that still leaves the problem of collecting the saliva in a suitable receptacle. A lizard won’t spit into a test tube just because you hold it under its chin.

If we lived in a perfect world, diabetics would cohabit with lizards and French kiss them from time to time. I don’t know whether lizards enjoy that sort of thing, but I should imagine they could be persuaded by taking them out on a date and treating them to a mouse dinner. The best person to consult on such matters is my friend Stella Deleuze, the blond bombshell from Bremen, who owns a pet lizard called Zorro. Their relationship is affectionate.

These scientific remedies are not infallible, of course. Many moons ago, it was postulated that mare’s urine was a palliative for menopausal women. Consequently, ladies of the hot-flashing persuasion started drinking horse-piss to put the juice back into their lemons. Then it was found out that ingesting horsey hormones carries worrying health risks, which caused the treatment to go out of fashion.

My advice to menopausal women is to eat plenty of fresh vegetables and partake in activities which exercise the muscles of the posterior, such as cycling and climbing trees. If the tush is in good health, the rest of the body will follow.

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Sound effects

The manager of the safari camp is pestering me to enter the farting competition announced by the De Wolfe Music Company.

“You can record them on my MP3 player!” he exclaimed. “I’ll do the editing myself and send them your finest 21-gun salute! How could anyone match a gorilla’s heavy artillery? The competition would be blown away!”

I knew better than to fall for such bogus flattery. He obviously wanted to use my bowel sounds for his own nefarious ends.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” I replied. “Recording the rumblings from my stormy interior would violate our sacred jungle taboos. A gorilla does not give away the sacred music of his intestines. I thank you, nevertheless, for praising my wind-making abilities. It’s always nice to have one’s talents recognised.”

The competition is sure to have many worthy entrants without my participation, but I do not give it my unqualified blessing. Although recording lavatory noises for posterity is obviously a worthwhile endeavour and a source of wonder for future generations, the rules of the competition permit simulated farts to be entered. I don’t know about you, but I have no respect for people who manufacture phoney flatulence by squelching their underarms or blowing raspberries. Allowing such fake noises to compete with authentic anal blasts will make a mockery of the whole thing as far as I’m concerned.

It also troubles me that De Wolfe are planning to sell the winning farts to the entertainment industry. I deplore their connivance in such acoustic deception. When I hear a fart in a movie or pop video, I want it to be a real one rather than a noise dubbed in from a sounds-effects library. Would Humphrey Bogart or Dame Vera Lynn have used a fart double? Of course not! Those old-school pros performed from the gut.

So what should be done with the winning farts? In my view, the welfare of the common folk should take precedence over the commercial interests of the show-business community. I would make them freely available for public use. Imagine the delight they would bring to birthday parties, weddings and christenings! People listening to a pompous speech or boring sermon could register their lack of interest with a crisp “parp”, rather than by yawning or picking their noses. What better way to release the pent-up frustrations of the masses and unburden their downtrodden souls?

When all is said and done, I disapprove of fart noises being traded like commodities or sold to the highest bidder. Farts are part of Nature’s bounty, like the rivers and mountains and herds of roaming buffalo. One can no more claim ownership of them than the geysers in Yellowstone Park, which spurt freely and proudly in front of admiring spectators. The next time you hear good one, treat it as a natural wonder to rival ‘Old Faithful’ and give it a hearty round of applause. If you don’t savour the good things in life, you may as well watch frogs mate.

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Dental gas

 

I received the following email yesterday: 

Dear Mr Bananas 

I am a partner at the London law firm of A*** & H***, writing on behalf our client, a Mr Matthew Walton. He is a dentist whose career is in jeopardy because of allegations that he maliciously broke wind while treating his patients. 

As a member of a species renowned for its flatulence, I trust you would have sympathy for one who faces ruin simply for performing this natural bodily function. In your wide experience of the activity, you must be intimately aware of its importance to good health and a comfortable bowel. 

We should therefore be most grateful if you would agree to testify as an expert witness in the hearing of the General Dental Council in London. We would, of course, pay your travel and accommodation costs. 

Yours sincerely 

Herbert C*** 

I initially thought this message was a practical joke. Many humans are familiar with the side effects of our healthy vegetarian diet, and quite a few of them enjoy drawing attention to this proclivity in a spirit of humorous banter. Teasing a gorilla by sending him hoax emails is much easier than cheeking him to his face, which most wags find intimidating. This is actually a pity, because we gorillas are quite able to appreciate a joke at our own expense. I would never hang a man upside down by his ankles merely for giving me a good-natured ribbing. 

However, as the message contained the name of lawyer’s purported client, I decided to check its veracity by means of a google search. To my great surprise, I discovered a news report which corroborated the story, although the lawyer had obviously omitted various details unfavourable to his client. 

The evidence suggests that this Matthew Walton farted wantonly in the presence of both patients and colleagues, and was greatly entertained by their disgust at the foul smells he produced. Their complaints merely added to his amusement. 

“He found it funny,” said a nurse at the dental clinic. “If I spoke to him about it, he laughed and did it more.” 

In no way is his behaviour comparable with that of us gorillas, who fart considerately in the open air, and direct our discharges so as to minimise the risk of passive fart inhalation by innocent bystanders (a category which excludes baboons and snakes, who are never innocent). With such issues in mind, I sent the following reply to the presumptuous lawyer: 

Dear Mr C*** 

You are wrong to assume that I would have sympathy for your client. When we gorillas break wind, our gases are quickly diffused in the atmosphere and cause minimal aggravation to our fellow creatures. The practice of letting off in an enclosed space is wholly abhorrent to us. When I am inside a building, I do whatever I can to avoid such a calamity, including opening a window and positioning my backside to face outwards. Your client is obviously a reckless polluter who has no concern for the harm done by his obnoxious emissions. I must therefore decline your request. 

Yours etc 

G Bananas 

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Fartball

There is no bigger imbecile than the football referee. The latest moral outrage perpetrated by one of these nincompoops was to caution a player for breaking wind. Someone should teach these card-waving clowns the ABC of human flatulence. Men, unlike apes, cannot conjure up farts at will (although quite a few have mastered the art of sneaking them out inaudibly). The idea that a footballer deliberately tooted his arse-trumpet to distract an opponent is absurd. Not even one of the beer-bellied yokels who play for Burridge United would be capable of that.

I am sorry to say that the vulgar sport of football continues to attract followers in Africa. Even women, who ought to know better, were among the spectators at a recent match in the Congo. Their ululating and hip-wiggling goaded the players into ever more bodacious acts of ball juggling. The one good thing about the African game is that the referee is always bribed by the hosts. This allows the match to proceed in an orderly fashion with very little of the swearing and gesticulating than bedevils the sport in England. If everyone expects the ref to be biased, no one is disappointed by his decisions. It is regarded as a legitimate part of home advantage.

Now you’re probably thinking that Gorilla Bananas spends a lot of time talking to people about farts. I certainly know more about them than Professor ‘Whoopee’ Cox of Salford University, who thinks he’s an expert in the field because he owns a cushion that makes six different varieties of lavatory noise. Yet we gorillas have no need to flaunt our knowledge of digestive gases, gained through patient years of guffing from a diet rich in fruit and vegetables. I never mention the subject at the safari guesthouse unless our visitors first bring it up, in which case I’m happy to deal with their queries and problems.

I was briefly lost for words, however, when a cross-eyed man with dandruff asked me if my females were any good at queefing. I pursed my lips and scratched my nipples before answering.

“The coochie of a female gorilla is as tight as a drum,” I said. “No air will come out unless you first put some in.”

“Do you think they’d let me have a go with a bicycle pump?” he asked.

“You’re welcome to try,” I said. “But I couldn’t guarantee that you’d leave the jungle with both testicles intact.”

He decided, on reflection, to experiment with his sex doll instead.

You’d be amazed at the number of e-mails I get from men with bizarre fantasies involving female gorillas. A lot of them complain that women aren’t able to squeeze them as tightly as they want.

“Female gorillas are moody beasts,” I explain. “If you ask them to squeeze you they might hang you upside down and watch you squirm. First try your luck with female body-builders.”

Women with bodies like the young Arnold Schwarzenegger (give or take a penis) should be capable of giving them what they crave. The fly in the ointment is that most of these ladies probably want to be dominated in bed, like any normal woman. Whether they're humans or apes, getting female primates to do what you want is always a challenge.

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