Friday, November 20, 2009
Wear your astronappy with pride
Wonderful news from America! Lisa Nowak, the former NASA astronaut, has been given a suspended prison sentence for persecuting her love rival. May the judge have his toes sucked for his wisdom and compassion! National heroes should be dealt with leniently unless they are irretrievably lost to the dark side. I personally wouldn’t have sent Lisa to the chokey unless she’d been sharing a hot tub with Satan. The butch lesbian inmates would have made life unbearable for her with their sarcastic remarks and indecent suggestions. The presence of an exalted one always brings out the worst in convicts.
As for Lisa’s crime, everyone knows that astronauts outrank all other professions in the mating hierarchy. She must have burned with righteous indignation when she was jilted by her lover for some scrawny-assed air-force captain. A woman who’s never been higher than the stratosphere should know better than to steal the stud of an authentic space cowgirl. It was only this heinous insult that provoked Lisa to chase her rival all over America, with pepper spray and tweezers at the ready.
Journalists covering the case have made much of the fact that Lisa wore a nappy when driving from place to place in search of her intended victim. Those familiar with the space program know this is standard operating practice for astronauts, who can’t afford to get caught short when performing important manoeuvres. The mission always comes first, whether you’re flying a spacecraft or hunting down your enemies like vermin. When Neil and Buzz were hopping about on the moon, they most certainly wore nappies and were not ashamed to admit it. Taking a leak on the lunar surface would have been an abominable act of desecration.
Speaking of water on the moon, the boys at NASA are very excited about their latest expedition. After crashing a craft into our celestial neighbour, they found underground lakes beneath the cheesy crust. They’re obviously planning to bottle the stuff and sell it on Earth, but I’d advise them to do a chemical analysis on it first. How did the water get there? is the question I want answered. My suspicion is that the moon was once a service station for alien travellers, who pissed in the nearest crater rather than building proper urinals or taking their waste products with them. The same thing happens at tourist venues on Earth, so we’re hardly in a position to castigate them.
Humans tend to have a black-and-white view of aliens, thinking they’ll either be cool cosmic dudes like the Vulcans, or ugly little fiends who’ll stick a probe up their rectum. I suspect most of them will actually be like tourists at cheap holiday resorts – loud, inconsiderate and addicted to cheap booze. When laser weapons are invented, we’ll have to install one on the roof of the safari guesthouse to keep out the riff-raff. If any space punks hover over the Congo in their flying saucers they’re going to get zapped by me, Northrop and Grumman.
Labels: aliens, Lisa Nowak, nappy, Northrop Grumman, water on the moon
Monday, November 16, 2009
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.
Labels: Art, Newcastle, sex with socks on, todger
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Cats will be cats
I’ve been watching a video clip of the keyboard cat, who has impressed a lot of people with his musical ability. I don’t deny the boy has talent, but pawing out tunes wearing sky-blue pyjamas does nothing for the dignity of his species.
In my circus days I was friendly with a feline camp follower called Catkins. I never mollycoddled him in human fashion and he respected me for it. “Catkins,” I said to him, “you scratch my back and I’ll stroke yours.” He was quick to agree to my offer, the claws of a cat being the perfect length and sharpness for grooming a gorilla’s fur. I returned the favour by stroking him with my toes while reading a magazine.
The ringmaster, being a visceral cat-hater, had no appreciation of Catkins and his grooming skills. He bought a goldfish and put it in a bowl next to the window of his trailer, supposedly so the fish could enjoy the view. I immediately suspected that his real motive was to taunt and frustrate any cats in the vicinity. He named the goldfish ‘Lockhart’ after a maestro of the circus ring he revered. I gave Catkins a few cautionary words after seeing him staring at it from a nearby gatepost.
“Catkins,” I said, “I know you want to eat the ringmaster’s goldfish. It is in your nature and cannot be helped. But please be aware that if you leave your paw-prints at the crime scene my efforts to protect you will be futile. As sure as night follows day, the ringmaster will hunt you down and kick your arse repeatedly. You have been warned.”
Catkins licked his paws and cleaned his whiskers as I spoke, which I interpreted as a display of insouciance. The opportunity for a snatch-and-grab raid occurred when the ringmaster stupidly left the skylight ajar during a day out with his wife. I happened to be passing nearby when Catkins jumped off the roof with the fish in his mouth. Peering through the window, I saw the goldfish bowl tipped over on its side and water dripping from the table it was situated on.
I decided to help Catkins cover his tracks. He may have been guilty in deed, but any lawyer will tell you that a cat is incapable of mens rea in matters of predation. After discreetly picking the lock of the trailer door, I mopped up the spillage and refilled the bowl. I then placed it in its original position, dropping in a plastic goldfish which I had bought from a pet shop. It sank to the bottom.
The ringmaster returned in the evening to find that his pet had been plasticated. “Some dirty thief has stolen Lockhart and replaced him with a plastic fish!” he bellowed. “This is an act of war! I bet that bastard Catkins is responsible!”
“Come off it, ringmaster!” I exclaimed. “Why would Catkins have put a plastic fish in the bowl? This was obviously a calculated insult delivered by someone who despises you, rather than the work of a feline felon. I suggest you interrogate the clowns forthwith.”
The ringmaster made walrus noises in his throat. “You’re right!” he growled. “My enemies are everywhere and snipe at me when my back is turned. If I kick the cat’s arse they’ll think they’re in the clear. I must behave with stealth and cunning.”
I left him to pursue his schemes, satisfied in the knowledge that I had saved a cat from a senseless act of retribution.
Labels: arse-kicking, cat, goldfish, ringmaster
Friday, November 06, 2009
The Nutty Professor
A professor who gave the British public valuable advice about narcotics has been dismissed from his post by a contemptible lackey of the state. Outraged at his persecution, the venerable yet nubile Mrs Pouncer is lobbying energetically on his behalf. Quite what she expects of me is not yet clear, although I’m not the sort of ape to disappoint a woman begging for succour. She reminds me of a female acrobat from my circus days, who was a member of the WWF. “Oh Gorilla Bananas!” she cried, “please help us save the black rhino.”
“The next time I’m in Africa I will do what I can for them,” I said. “They are welcome to my advice on safety precautions and I know a man who will saw off their horns for a nominal fee. I cannot promise they will listen to me though, they are headstrong beasts with a reputation for truculent behaviour.”
“Oh Gorilla Bananas!” she cried, “that would be wonderful! Could you also make a donation?”
I wrote her a cheque without further comment.
The professor is a man called David Nutt, who was asked by the British government for his views on recreational drugs. Like a proper scientist, he carried out careful experiments and amassed a mountain of data. He then announced that many illegal substances, such as LSD and cannabis, were really pretty harmless (although he wouldn’t touch them himself, being high on life and mucho ojo). The real danger, he said, was from lawful activities like drinking alcohol and riding horses. For daring to speak these unspeakable truths, a cowardly government minister sacked him on the spot.
Mrs Pouncer’s advocacy of him is all the more commendable given that alcohol and riding are essential components of her own therapeutic regimen. I gather she uses alcohol as an aphrodisiac and hallucinogen, and riding as a stimulant and laxative. So it seems that her love of justice has trumped her selfish interests. If Professor Nutt is a man of honour, he’ll exonerate Mrs Pouncer from his normal prohibitions and allow her to ride horses and knock back the booze with wanton indulgence. Everyone has a unique constitution, and one man’s poison is another woman’s antidote.
So what should be done to further this worthy campaign against state-sanctioned scapegoating? I would advise the good professor to proceed as follows. First, get out of those dowdy lounge suits and assume the dhoti kurta of the holy man – I believe the latest fashions are available from the on-line Maharishi store. Next, set up an ashram in the Kent countryside providing free hashish and morning-after-pills to disciples from all denominations. That should ensure a sizable following.
The pièce de résistance would be an act of gallantry to win the hearts of the public. My suggestion would be disrupting the hideous ritual enacted every autumn in university towns throughout the United Kingdom. At the start of their degrees, homesick virgins relieve their despair by getting drunk at “fresher parties” and surrendering their virtue to charmless oiks rendered tolerable by the alcoholic haze. If Professor Nutt were to rescue a handful of these innocents and give them sanctuary in his ashram, the righteous among the nations would surely acclaim him as a modern-day Schindler. I would lend him a hand myself if I didn’t have pressing matters to attend to in the rainy season.
Labels: David Nutt, drugs, narcotics, virgins
Monday, November 02, 2009
Hummus hostilities
Lebanese chefs have made a giant plate of hummus to shame the Israelis, who have been manufacturing their own version of the paste and exporting it around the world. The folks in Lebanon want everyone to know that hummus is Lebanese and that the Israelis are vulgar copycats. A noble objective, you might think, but what then? There is no evidence that consumers are dissatisfied with the counterfeit product or care who makes it. If the Lebanese really want to get even they should start exporting strudel and see how the Israelis like it. It could lead to a new form of low-intensity warfare where you mimic the culinary habits of your enemy to sow confusion in their ranks. But I hope it doesn’t come to that – food fights are terribly futile and no one wins in the end.
It’s good to see the Lebanese take pride in their native dishes. For many years, their image was sullied by Corporal Max Klinger of the 4077th M*A*S*H. For those not familiar with the show, Klinger was a Lebanese-American buffoon who thought he could get out of the army by wearing ladies’ clothes. Hoping to get a medical discharge by convincing everyone he was nuts, he succeeded only in convincing them he was a gay transvestite. The ironic thing is that Klinger wasn’t homosexual at all, which was just as well, because a gay man with a nose his size would never have got laid. It is a curious aspect of human sexuality that only heterosexual women find big noses attractive. And not all of them, by any means, it’s very much a niche market.
But let’s get back to the hummus. The Israelis are clearly in the wrong and should stop pretending they know how to make Arab food. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s condiments,” sayeth the Lord their God. Once again, the Children of Israel have broken the commandments of Johnny Jehovah and are asking for a family-sized can of whoopass. Maybe He’ll force them to eat manna-from-heaven again, a fitting penance for culinary malfeasance given that it tastes like bird crap. Or maybe He’ll send a plague of snails to devour their herbs and season their meats with green slime. The Land of Israel shall resound with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, particularly when the dinner gong soundeth.Let’s not single out the Israelis for blame though. All humans are guilty of stealing recipes, particularly from the animal kingdom. Take eggs, for example. Although no one knows whether the chicken came before the egg, it is beyond dispute that they both came before Delia Smith, the television housewife and cook. Yet the English Rose of Woking cracks them open without a word of gratitude to the humble hens that squatted and strained to produce them. Anyone would think that she’d laid them herself. If I were God, I would punish her for her vanity and presumption by making her incubate a fertile ostrich egg between her warm and wobbly thighs. For every yolk she has cruelly whisked, let her hatch a little ostrich chick and raise it as one of her own. It takes more than custard pies to get you into heaven.
Labels: Delia Smith, Hummus, Israel, Jehovah, Lebanon, Max Klinger
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Rock bottom
I’ve sent a ‘Get Well Soon’ card to Alejandra Guzman, the Mexican singer recovering in hospital from a bottom infection. The circumstances of her case are disturbing. It all started when she went to a clinic for a routine injection to improve the texture of her tush. Quite understandable for a woman in a profession where the shapely behind is de rigueur, although I could have helped her achieve the same end with a natural technique. It’s a pity she didn’t consult me first, but there’s no point crying over spoiled pumpkins.
She certainly wasn’t to blame for what happened at the clinic. It was pure bad luck that its director was a devious impostor with no medical qualifications. He had staffed the establishment with an assortment of ne’er-do-wells willing to accept nugatory wages for the sordid gratification of ogling and pawing the female posterior. With no understanding of proper sterilisation procedures, one of these Pedros pierced Ms Guzman’s hindquarters with a contaminated needle, causing severe inflammation and much tribulation.
Now we gorillas are especially sympathetic to those of our human cousins who have been injured in the backside. Justly proud of our own bottoms, which are taut and muscular to the umpteenth degree, it saddens our tender souls to hear of a rump defiled or cruelly abused. The psychological scars of a disfigured derrière run deep. You only have to look at the boorish and offensive behaviour of baboons to realise how having an ugly arse can effect one’s attitude to life. I hope Ms Guzman’s doctors bear this in mind when they’re treating her. They must avoid making insensitive remarks about the afflicted region and do all they can to preserve its natural symmetry. There are few more pitiable sights than a lopsided pair of buttocks.
She shouldn’t expect miracles though. Being nominated for the Rear of the Year award will be out of the question for the foreseeable future. I’ve often toyed with the idea of getting involved in this competition myself. Not as a contestant, of course. You can’t compare grapefruits with apples – the former are bigger, juicier and contain more vitamin C. No, my intended role would be sponsor and advisor. The reason I’ve not yet stepped forward is my unease about the method of judgement, which like so many things in human society is based purely on appearance. How can you really appreciate the quality of a butt without a manual examination? The discerning housewife always picks up and squeezes the fruit before putting it in her shopping basket.
I could always offer to judge the bottoms as well. You won’t find anyone more skilled at manipulating flesh than a gorilla. Our grasp is surprisingly gentle too – the contestants wouldn’t have to worry about bruises or bottom hickeys. Yet in the long-run I’d be worried about finger-cramp. Why should I provide the manual labour if I’m also sponsoring the prizes? Perhaps I should be responsible for hiring the judges instead. Does a fee of one dollar per posterior sound fair? To avoid tax problems they should pay us in cash.
Labels: Alejandra Guzman, bottom hickey, bottom injection, Rear of the Year
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Italian handjob
Silvio Berlusconi has made a big point of denying that he’s ever paid for sex, arguing that it would ruin the thrill of his conquests. I can well believe the call girls he invites to his parties don’t charge him. Pleasuring a sitting prime minister must be a great honour for them, as well as being the safest position at his age. I wonder if he asks them to put on an eye-mask and shout “Heigh-ho Silvio!” as they bounce up and down on his lap. As true professionals, they should do whatever it takes to flush out the toxic goo from his prostate gland.
They are also shrewd businesswomen, of course. Siphoning the prime minister of Italy must look pretty good on your résumé when you’re negotiating a fee with oil sheiks or TV evangelists. It’s a bit like John Travolta getting a free supply of Brylcreem after playing the young dandy in Grease. All the same, I hope that Mr Berlusconi gives them expensive presents as a mark of his appreciation. A gold-plated statuette of Cupid which urinates red wine is the sort of lavish gift one would expect from a man of his pedigree.
Working girls have unfortunately not been immune from the consequences of the economic downturn. Brothels around the world are cutting down on sundry expenses – some have even been reduced to serving their clients in the dark. The Pussy Club in Berlin has cut its fee to 70 euros for a hamburger and straight sex, which is a dubious tactic in my view. Cheap whores are like cheap jewellery – nobody wants to be seen buying them. They should have offered two-for-one deals and loyalty cards instead, with an eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet for the sex maniacs.
How to get the world economy booming again is a frequent topic of debate at the safari guesthouse. Not everyone supports President Obama’s plan of building new roads and bridges. An increase in the number of navvies flaunting their bare chests is a high price to pay for stimulating economic activity. A bald man who claimed to have a PhD in economics said that the correct policy was to distribute “helicopter money”. Essentially, this means emptying boxes of bank notes from a helicopter so that people on the streets below can pick them up and spend them. Monetarist theory says that this will boost business, making everyone rich again.
We all thought it was a brilliant idea at the time, but on deeper reflection the ploy seems to have a fatal flaw. What is to stop the pilot flying off to Venezuela with all the cash, where President Hugo Chavez, the demagogue and failed gorilla-impersonator, would surely offer him asylum? The trouble with economists is that they never think of these practical problems. I wish the bald-headed upstart were still here so I could massage some coconut oil into his scalp.
So what’s my solution to the slump? I’m glad you asked. What the world needs now is another gold rush like the one that prompted thousands of rednecks and desperadoes to migrate to California in 1848. Most of America’s gold is currently gathering dust in places like Fort Knox. Pulverising all this idle bullion and burying it in strategic locations around the country would cause booming mining towns to spring up like pimples on a teenager. The USA would once again be a land flowing with milk and cookies. And if they buried the gold near brothels, the sex workers would be the first to benefit from the increase in commerce. As John Maynard Keynes said, the prosperity of a nation is measured in the affluence of its whores.
Labels: Berlusconi, brothels, call girls, straight sex
