Wednesday, July 19, 2017
King of the druids
A British tourist asks me to sign a petition on behalf of ‘King Arthur Pendragon’, a self-appointed 'druid elder', who is in dispute with an organisation that manages historical sites in England.
“My dear fellow,” I reply. “I could not possibly sign a document without knowing the particulars of the case.”
“English Heritage want to charge visitors £15 for parking their cars at Stonehenge,” he explains. “This violates the religious freedom of druids, who have been praying there for 5,000 years without parking charges.”
“Is that so?” I reply. “Well, worthy though this cause may be, a gorilla cannot take sides in a quarrel between humans. Nevertheless, you may tell King Arthur that I fully support his right to freedom of worship.”
“Hum,” says the man, frowning. “I’ll try my luck with the humans.”
I later find a newspaper report about the dispute, which clarifies a number of issues. It seems that the aggrieved druid changed his name to ‘King Arthur Pendragon’ because he thinks he is a reincarnation of the original King Arthur. However, the original King Arthur was a Christian, not a druid. And he wouldn’t have made a fuss about paying a parking charge of 15 pounds sterling. A king does not trouble himself about such trifling sums.
All of which suggests that this modern-day ‘King Arthur’ is a colossal ignoramus, who is more likely a reincarnation of Chico Marx or Meadowlark Lemon. I’m glad I didn’t sign the petition supporting his cause. Rather than being allowed to park free at Stonehenge, he should be banned from visiting the site altogether. The place is rapidly becoming a campsite for bearded charlatans and New Age cultists, which is spoiling the experience for bona fide tourists with cash in their pockets.
In truth, no one knows what Stonehenge really signifies. The prehistoric men who built it left no manuals or user guides. Everyone assumes it’s some kind of pagan religious site, but it actually looks like a pile of baby bricks assembled by a giant baby. Who is to say that it wasn’t used as a leisure facility? There are many games that humans could play at Stonehenge, including hide-and-seek and peek-a-boo. If baboons lived there, they would play a game called “pissing-down-on-people-from-the-top-of-a-boulder”. The neo-druids and baboons could contest their rival claims to the site in a sporting event. My money would be on the baboons.
Religion, of course, is a touchy subject for many humans. If any druids were to read this post, they might think I was mocking their faith, which could provoke them to leave a hostile comment. In reality, I know nothing about the neo-druidic religion. It must very different from the religion of the ancient druids, which included many practices that would now be illegal or grossly indecent. The modern druids may simply be harmless eccentrics who like wearing robes and chanting spells. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they should come out and make their case in a public forum. You won’t win anyone’s trust by lurking in the shadows like a thief.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
I’m no fan of snakes, but I confess to a sneaking admiration for the rattlesnake that bit a man from Florida in the face. This incomparable oaf had tried to kiss the rattler for reasons that remain mysterious. His neighbour claims that he had boasted he could “kiss the Devil” and get away with it. Evidently, the rattlesnake was made of sturdier stuff than Satan and sent the audacious nincompoop to hospital with a life-threatening dose of venom. He is no longer in critical condition, but his frontal lobes remain impaired.
Now we jungle apes have an inborn aversion to snakes, but it has to be admitted that the rattlesnake is a far more honourable foe than most of the crawly characters that infest my neighbourhood. For one thing, it advertises its presence with a sinister noise, giving you the chance to decline combat and make a hasty retreat. And the above-mentioned incident proves that it shows no mercy to lecherous men who attempt to seduce it with kisses. If Donald Trump had tried to grab a rattlesnake by the pussy, his tiny bitten hand would have quickly swollen to a medium-sized one.
Sadly, not all snakes are as brave and defiant as the resourceful rattler. Google images contains a surprising number of pictures of snakes being embraced by naked women. I think the images are supposed to be erotic, but the hapless serpents don’t look as if they’re enjoying themselves. What is the point of forcing them to pose in those unnatural positions? I don’t see anything sexy about a snake being fondled by a woman.
Snakes are not the only animals that have fallen prey to the deviant carnal appetites of humanity. Does anyone remember the man from Sudan who was forced to marry a goat he had taken advantage of? It was a shotgun wedding that punished the poor animal more severely that its abuser. The bearded bride died two years later from undisclosed causes. Maybe it committed suicide to end the agony of its marriage.
We gorillas, of course, are not immune from the attentions of infatuated humans. The King Kong syndrome is alive and well in giddy young ladies of a certain disposition. Back in my circus days, I received a number of requests from women who wanted me to shower them under a waterfall. I generally told them I was too busy and gave them a brochure about holidays in Niagara Falls. On one occasion I agreed to cool off a sweaty-looking girl with a garden hose. A few women attempted to grope me, but I never pressed charges – one has to make allowances for overexcited fans.
The hope for the future is that animal sex robots will satisfy humans with the urge for cross-species love. It shouldn’t be difficult to construct something that looks and sounds like a sheep or a goat. A replica gorilla would be a much greater challenge, though. I’d like to see the robot that can grab a pair of maracas with its toes.
Wednesday, July 05, 2017
The manager of the safari camp is away on a business trip, so his wife is advising me on what to blog about. She suggests I comment on an article about a scientific study investigating what type of breasts men prefer:
“They found that most men desire women with perky boobs,” she tells me. “As a gorilla, you know very well that the real test of a tit is how much milk it produces. Why don’t you educate your readers about the foolishness of men?”
“A most fascinating topic,” I reply. “But I try to avoid preaching sermons in my blog. You can’t really blame people for their likes and dislikes. A lot of people find it strange that I like unripe mangoes.”
“Are you telling me that you prefer perky boobs?” she asks suspiciously.
“No, not a bit of it!” I protest. “As you say, it’s their ability to produce gallons of fresh milk that matters. I’ll study the piece and see what I can make of it.”
After reading I the article, I manage to acquire a grasp of the underlying theory. The scientists argue that men are finely attuned to a woman’s fertility indicators, presumably because they can’t determine whether she is in oestrus by sniffing her coochie (as we apes do). They argue that fertile women have more attractive breasts:
This is supported by evidence showing that women with larger breasts tend to have higher estrogen levels; breast size may therefore serve as an indicator of potential fertility. However, breasts become less firm with age and parity, and breast shape could thus also serve as a marker of residual fertility.
Thus, the perky boob hypothesis postulates that women with pliant bosoms are likely to remain fertile for a longer period, which makes them more desirable. Even men who don’t want to make babies are attracted to such women because their brains are hardwired that way. This is why they lust after women like Sharon Stone rather than Dolly Parton (or Chesty Morgan).
This is an interesting theory, but there is one detail that looks fishy to men. The men whose opinions were surveyed were from four countries – Brazil, Cameroon, the Czech Republic and Namibia. Are those countries really representative of the global population? Call me a suspicious ape, but I wonder whether the men of those nations are obsessed about jahoobies to an unusual degree. Brazilian beaches are certainly a notorious haven for bosom oglers. If so, there may be places where men test the fertility of women in other ways. Sniffing and tasting is usually more reliable than staring and groping.
I’m not saying the study is definitely wrong, of course. Perhaps men from all parts of the world do appreciate a perky pair of titties. However, I know for a fact that many men are more interested in the thighs and the rump. So I’m keeping an open mind on this one. You can’t make sweeping generalisations until all the data are in.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Another internet scam
Have you ever taken Hatha Jodi? It’s a magical Indian root that will give you mellow thoughts and a tingling sensation in the toes. The Hatha Jodi plant is very rare, grown only in a handful of holy sites, but many online retailers are now offering the root at very reasonable prices. Suspecting a counterfeiting operation, the Indian police acquired samples of the merchandise to send to a laboratory for analysis. It was then discovered that the roots being sold online were actually dried lizard penises.
Before discussing the implications of this disturbing discovery, let’s pause to pay tribute to the scientists who determined what the fake roots really were. To identity a few scraps of dried flesh as lizard penises must have involved some fiendish detective work with microscopes and test tubes. Sceptics might wonder whether they could really tell the difference between a lizard penis and a crocodile clitoris, but the reliability of biological tests is not to be questioned. You can’t argue with science.
Now let’s get back to the substance of the matter. This fraud is clearly a serious crime on several different levels. We must face the appalling fact that millions of people have eaten dried lizard dicks on false pretences. This probably did them no physical harm, and might have even helped their digestion, but the psychological consequences should not be pooh-poohed. No one likes to be tricked into eating a penis – for a vegetarian, indeed, it could be a life-scarring event.
The most pitiable victims, of course, are the lizards. There’s something particularly horrible about being hunted for your todger. Even a reptile would have been driven insane with fear when contemplating such an ignoble fate. It’s also incredibly sexist that only male lizards were targeted. Removing so many of them from the ecosystem would have ruined the gender balance, resulting in an oversupply of females. The surviving males might have enjoyed this for a while, but the novelty would have worn off pretty quickly. Being surrounded by sex-starved females will sap the loins of the horniest stud.
Justice demands that the retailers who sold these lizard organs should pay damages to the victims. As well as giving full refunds to those who bought the goods, there should be compensation for every lizard penis eaten in ignorance. It’s difficult to assess what sum would be appropriate – I would start the bidding at ten US dollars per appendage consumed. As for the lizards, it’s sadly too late to help those that have perished, but fines could be paid into a fund to protect the survivors from poachers and give them the counselling they need.
The deeper question, however, is whether scams like this are inevitable when people think some species of plant has magical properties. I’ve eaten hundreds of roots in my time, and all they gave me was calories and wind. This Hatha Jodi sounds like a quack remedy cultivated by devious Indian Swamis to trick gullible Westerners into parting with their cash. Feed it to the baboons.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Big is bountiful
I’ve been reading a curiously defensive opinion piece written by a 25-stone prostitute. This anonymous call girl is upset that fat women never get kissed in films and TV shows, the implication being that no one wants to have sex with them. Given that men actually pay her for sex, she finds this supposition grossly insulting.
She insists that a woman of her size can do things for a man that the slimmer wench cannot. For example, her clients often ask her to assume positions in which they are crushed, smothered or otherwise compressed by her wobbly flesh. For some men, this is achieved by straight sex in the cowgirl position. Others require her to walk over their bodies in stiletto heels, which she can do without inflicting lethal injuries. The most common request she receives, however, is to sit on a client’s face:
“Men would want to lie under my glorious bottom for hours, doing what men do when they’re under a glorious bottom for hours,” she declared.
(In actual fact I’m not sure what men do do in that situation, but I don’t think it’s a critical issue at this juncture.)
When a number of her clients grew beards during the “Movember” challenge, she temporally withdrew the face-sitting service to prevent her lady parts getting scratched:
“It’s like sitting on a hedgehog that’s swallowed a football,” she explained.
After sharing this information with us, she insists that fat women can and do have amazing sex lives. Their coochies are not cavernous or bucket-like, as some people apparently believe:
“We are not to be pitied. We are not desperate and our genitals are no different to anyone else’s. If you think a vagina can be any bigger because of someone’s size, you have to equate that to every other one of their internal organs – which means I must have a brain twice as big as yours!”
I think it’s fair to conclude that Ms Anonymous Fat Hooker has a sizeable chip on her shoulder, but that doesn’t mean her assertions are untrue. Personally, I’ve never doubted that fat women have great sex lives. There are plenty of chubby-chasers out there to keep them satisfied, and they aren’t too dainty to enjoy a good shafting.
Nevertheless, I don’t approve of humans who are proud of carrying blubber that would befit a walrus. Homo Sapiens, let’s not forget, evolved as a fleet-footed hunter-gatherer on the African plains. There are no lard-butts among the Masai, whose colloquial term for fat humans is “lion food”. If you can’t keep up with the livestock, you’re less valuable than a cow and more vulnerable than a goat.
Instead of boasting about her sex life, Ms Tarty-Puff should get herself a hula-hoop and starting exercising that glorious bottom of hers. I would also recommend the gorilla diet of fresh salad and insects. If she loses a few hundred pounds, she might stop resenting all those slender models and actresses who hog the limelight.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
A school in Sweden is planning to install a musical toilet for its students. On glancing at the relevant news report, I assumed they were doing it to help constipated children evacuate their bowels. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, told me how listening to Mozart or Perry Como would relax his sphincter and loosen the granite-like dung clogging up his innards. Given that human kiddies are notorious for not eating their veggies and detesting fibre-rich food, it’s highly plausible that many of them face a life-or-death struggle when attempting to eject their faecal waste. If music can help them poop it out, so much the better.
Yet on studying the news report more carefully, it soon became apparent that constipation was not the problem that inspired this innovation. The purpose of the music, in fact, is to drown out any noises made by the toilet-user. It seems that Swedish children are incredibly embarrassed about the sounds they make and don’t want anyone outside the toilet to hear them. I must say I find this quite astonishing. The human children I encountered in my circus days loved making lavatory noises, which they frequently imitated by sticking out their tongues and blowing. The sound of an authentic fart invariably produced great merriment among them. I have no doubt they would have despised the musical toilet as device for weaklings and cry-babies.
Have human children really changed so much since the days I used to associate with them? Or is there a particular problem with Swedish children, who may have been taught that farting is shameful? There’s a big difference, of course, between getting laughs for an imitation fart and getting laughed at for a real one. But I don’t believe children are born with an embarrassment about breaking wind. This can only be a complex giving to them by adults. I should imagine politically correct Swedish parents are giving their children hard stares and forcing them to apologise for their flatulence. This will be very damaging in the long run. A nation that is ashamed of its farts is a nation of sissies.
If I were a schoolteacher in Sweden, I would tell the children that big animals don’t care about the noises they make when they go to the bathroom. I’ve laughed at elephants shitting, I’ve laughed at hippos shitting, and d’ya know what? They never even looked in my direction. That’s what it means to be a big beast. You do whatever you want and don’t worry about the audience reaction. No amount of cackling and hooting is going to make an elephant feel embarrassed.
Anyone who stands outside a toilet hoping to hear amusing noises is an idiot and a buffoon. That’s really scraping the barrel for cheap laughs. Why go to the trouble of making a musical toilet to thwart such people? You may as well make a toilet that makes continuous fart noises to drown out the sound of fart noises. That, I admit, would be pretty funny.
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Apparently there’s a product called MySweetV that can improve the taste and smell of a woman’s coochie. It’s promotional website contains the following sales pitch:
MySweetV is formulated to give your secretions a semi-fruity taste and sensual smell. You should always taste better than the next chick!
The same idea is repeated in the product’s twitter feed:
MySweetV makes your milkshake taste better than the next chick by giving your secretions a semi-fruity taste and sensual smell while working with your body’s Ph levels.
I would advise them to send out free samples to get some reviews instead of hoping that everyone will believe their hype. These reviews should be written by the tasters, not the buyers, so the claims made for MySweetV can be verified. I doubt there will be any reluctance on their part – humans who have eaten something tasty are rarely shy of boasting about it.
None of which means I approve of the product, which seems to be based on the premise that a woman’s vulva is some kind of hors d’oeuvre that must be sniffed and eaten like an oyster. This idea is unhelpful, in my view, because it encourages the taster to focus on his own enjoyment rather than the pleasure he should be trying to give. The prime objective of oral sex is to gratify the receiver – pleasant sensations on the tongue are an agreeable perk, but should not be thought of an end in itself.
MySweetV's marketing campaign has provoked a few hostile reactions. An article in an online newspaper has denounced the quest for an appetising vagina as bogus and demeaning. This is the advice it gave to its female readers:
Your vagina is not supposed to be entirely odourless. It’s not supposed to smell like roses and taste like a ripe plum. Your vagina should smell and taste like a vagina.
This is a fair point, and well made, but it begs the question of what an unseasoned vagina is supposed to taste like. Is there an authentic vagina flavour? Call me an innocent ape, but I really have no idea. If you blindfolded me and gave me different things to lick, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a vagina and a shrimp cocktail.
My only source on this vexed question is Mr Krayzee Eyez Killah, the rap singer who told Larry David that vaginas come in as many different flavours as ice cream. He went on the claim that Thai pussies were a particular delicacy. Maybe Thai women eat special herbs and spices to make their juices tasty. In the absence of data, we can only speculate.
Truly, the Earth is full of unsolved mysteries. No one, to my knowledge, has got to the bottom of the Bermuda triangle. Do the ships that disappear there fall prey to pirates, or are they swallowed by a giant vortex? What affects the taste of a woman’s coochie is an enigma of comparable magnitude.