Monday, May 12, 2008
Indian heatwave
I hear that the teaming masses of India are rioting because of the hot weather. Someone should tell them that rioting only makes you hotter. Far better to relax beneath the shade of a leafy tree while being fanned by your personal attendant. Who could ever forget those leg-stretching lyrics sung by the sultry Ursula Andress?
Underneath the mango tree
Me honey and me
Dah dah dah dah doo
Female gorillas are not cut out to be fanners, so I usually hire a chimpanzee to pull the punkah. One must do one’s bit to create jobs and discourage idle hands from mischievous deeds. How do I occupy myself while being fanned? If I’m in the mood, I toot out melodies on my recorder while shaking a pair of maracas with my feet. We gorillas are well-equipped to be solo artists.
It seems that the Indians are furious about being subjected to lengthy power cuts. There simply isn’t enough wattage to keep the burgeoning number of electric fans whirring for 24 hours a day. That’s what happens in a booming emerging economy – people who once made do with the odd gust of breeze now expect to have non-stop ventilation. Enraged householders have stripped to their underwear and taken to the streets, abusing and harassing local officials. It’s a tactic that’s causing much commotion, given that the sight of Indian men in their chuddies has been known to spook elephants. One gets the impression that very few of the protesters are women in bra and panties.
I learned in my circus days how humans can lash out unpredictably when the temperature gets too high. I remember a blazing afternoon in Mexico City before an evening show. It was hotter than the Devil’s kitchen. I saw a dog pass water on the hubcap of a motor car, only to scamper away in panic when its piss sizzled and gave off steam. While the other performers rehearsed inside the big tent, I sat in a deckchair outside, wearing a sombrero and reading back issues of Josie and the Pussycats.
Presently, the ringmaster stormed out of the tent and addressed me angrily.
“Where’s my haemorrhoid cream?” he thundered.
“Your what?” I replied, barely suppressing a grin.
“Don’t play dumb with me, you big hairy ape! I checked the seat of your bicycle and it was greasy!”
“My dear Ringmaster, that’s just palm oil to prevent the hot plastic sticking to my bum. I assure you I have no need of your unguents.”
“I want to search your trailer!”
“Be my guest, Ringmaster. After you have done so, I suggest you make enquiries with the clowns. I saw them applying an odd-looking lotion to their chapped lips. You must take more care where you leave your medications.”
He stomped off muttering and harumping. “There goes an angry, red-faced man,” I thought.
Let us pray that India boosts her output to meet the growing demand. It will take a while for new facilities to be put in place, so interim measures are urgently required. Here are my suggestions:
(i) organise free bus tours to the Himalayan foothills for the ringleaders, to cool them down and make them giddy in the thin atmosphere;
(ii) use crop-spraying aircraft to deposit a fine mist of opiates over the rioters, so their wrath gives way to drowsy contentment;
(iii) instruct officials connected with the power industry to wear false noses and wigs, to make them a focus of ridicule rather than rage.
Sound social policy is the only remedy for civil disorder.
Labels: Chuddies, India, Punkah, Ursula Andress
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Jock and the Beanstalk
I had a chat with the guests at the safari camp the other day, as they waited for their bus to arrive. A shy young woman called Miss Lillywhite told me that she worked for a large publishing house. She said that one of her current projects was re-writing a book of much-loved fairy tales in non-sexist, non-racist language.
“I had no idea that fairy stories were such a repository of political incorrectness,” I remarked. “Can you give me an example?”
“Do you remember when the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk says ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman’?”
“Yes, how funny that was!” I exclaimed. “In a dark and macabre way, of course,” I added gravely.
“Well we’re changing that to ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of a farmer’s son’.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. It was obviously bad form for the giant to single out a particular race of humans for his main course. And I don’t believe for one minute that an Englishman’s blood has a distinctive odour. Had he said ‘I smell the armpits of an Englishman’ he might have had a point, but…”
One of the advantages of being a 500-pound gorilla is that you don’t often get interrupted in mid-sentence, but this proved to be one of the rare instances to the contrary. As I faced the young lady, the crisp voice of a sardonic Scotsman passed by my shoulder:
“It’s just as well the giant didne eat him cuz he’d a bin constipated for a week!”
I turned round to see a tall, sturdy man of middle age, with a mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes.
“What ever do you mean, Sir?” I asked. “Does the flesh of the English lack roughage? No more so than the flesh of the Scotch, Irish or Welsh, I’ll be bound. The giant would surely have taken vegetables with his meat, to say nothing of bran flakes for breakfast!”
“I mean the English are so full of shite it would have clogged up his gut!” explained the man with a smirk.
I smiled knowingly. I had met enough Scottish humans in my circus days to know that rubbishing the “auld enemy” was a favourite pastime of theirs.
“How very ironic that you should make such a remark in present company,” I said, “for it is precisely the kind of ignoble sentiment that Miss Lillywhite is excising from the new version of the fable she is drafting.”
“O aye?” replied the Scotsman, looking at our female companion in wry amusement. “So you’re working on a clean version of Jack and the Beanstalk, are yer?
Miss Lillywhite nodded.
“Well yer may have your work cut out. Ah’ve always thought it was a parable warning against the dangers of masturbation. It’s pretty obvious what that sprouting beanstalk represents, don’t yer think?”
I chuckled at the man’s tarradiddle, and was about to make a sceptical yet civil remark, when I noticed with dismay that Miss Lillywhite was blushing furiously. It pained me to see her in such a condition, so I decided to make a loud and preposterous statement in the hope that it would draw attention to myself and ease her discomfort.
“What the devil are you blathering about man!” I cried. “The beanstalk was obviously a giant stick of celery, or perhaps a stick of giant broccoli - a triffid-like harbinger of doom for humans and ogres alike! Man, in his vainglorious pride, dabbles with bewitched beans in defiance of his sacred texts, creating a monstrosity that will smite him hip and thigh!”
As I had hoped, my outburst attracted the attention of the rest of the tour party, several of whom quickly gathered round to participate in the persiflage. The debate quickly developed into a series of rapid-fire exchanges between the Scotsman (whose name was McTavish) and the newcomers (who were English). The former, I might add, was more than equal to the challenge, for these Caledonian folk assuredly have the gift of repartee. Miss Lillywhite, meanwhile, drifted away, and I noted with satisfaction that her cheeks had been restored to their customary pale complexion.
Presently, the safari bus arrived and the guests began to take their seats. The last to board was one of the men who had been bantering with the loquacious Scotsman. Before entering the vehicle, he uttered these words to me in a low voice:
“I’ve got a good one for McTavish: ‘Why do Scotsmen have long, thin dicks? Because they’re a bunch of tight-fisted wankers!’ Wish me luck!”
My only response to this quip was to place my hand over my mouth and shake my head in disapproval. After the bus had driven away, I fell to the ground and howled like hyena.
Labels: English armpits, Fee-fi-fo-fum, Scotsman
Friday, May 02, 2008
Doing it in space
A guest predicts that passenger spaceflight will soon be available for the wealthy.
“It wouldn’t interest me,” I remark. “Deep pockets or not, we gorillas would never enjoy being weightless – we’re too used to throwing our weight around. In zero-gravity conditions, picking your nose and flicking the bogey would make you drift backwards. Floating around like a ghost is undignified… and bad for the digestion too.”
“People would only go into orbit for special occasions,” he replies. “One idea on the drawing board is for newlyweds to go on honeymoon trips.”
“Well poke my chest with a crocodile’s toothpick!” I exclaim.
I later realise that this wacky idea might appeal to sumo wrestlers. For reasons unknown to man or beast, these great mounds of blubber always seem to get hitched to the daintiest blossoms of the Japanese nation. Consummating the marriage without committing involuntary manslaughter must be a major headache for them. I should imagine it’s a choice between being gently lowered into position inside a harness or lying on their backs and asking the wee lady to work it out for herself. Neither option sounds very romantic: what woman wants to be a jockey on her wedding night? But in the weightless domain of space, the whole operation would like docking the lunar module with the mothercraft – you can’t go wrong if the hatch is properly aligned.
Now some of you are probably thinking that I’m a whale calling the walrus fat, given that the average silverback weighs twice as much as any female in his harem. What you forget is that our females are incredibly robust around the haunches. The rigours of jungle life give them buns of steel and thighs of concrete. It would take an ape the size of King Kong to rupture the pelvis of a female gorilla.
Returning to the issue at hand, the zero-gravity problem doesn’t mean I pooh-pooh the whole idea of space exploration. Far from it. Ever since President Kennedy sent his chimpanzees into orbit, we apes have been deeply involved in the venture. Film buffs will remember the opening scene of 2001: A Space Odyssey, in which a band of excitable gibbons make the first definitive step to the homo club. Once they start swinging their bones, it’s just a tick on the evolutionary clock before picturesque vessels are waltzing gaily through the Solar System to the music of Johann Strauss Junior. It just goes to show how a single fortuitous incident can initiate a truly stupendous chain of events. One small bone for a gibbon: one giant leap for mankind.
What the space programme really needs today is heroes to compare with the Apollo 11 crew – Armstrong, Aldrin and the other guy who never made it to the lunar surface. Neil Armstrong got most of the acclaim, but he always struck me as a cold fish – a safe pair of hands, but very robotic in his pronouncements. Buzz Aldrin was more of a flesh-and-blood astronaut, going on lecture tours and confronting the pathetic boobs who think the moon landings were a hoax. I believe he gave one of those clowns a well-deserved sock on the jaw. But my favourite member of the crew will always be the dude who stayed in the orbiter watching the Earth rise umpteen times, possibly while smoking a joint. That’s what it means to be cool. Let the macho boys hop around like bunnies while you enjoy the view from the window. He was the patron saint of mellow.
Labels: Buzz Aldrin, space travel, Sumo wrestlers
Monday, April 28, 2008
A Russian doll
Are women who can do the splits more attractive to men? It’s a question that’s been on my mind lately. I’m not suggesting that any sane man would want to mate with a woman actually doing the splits. That sort of perversion would make a baboon screw up its face in disgust. I also have a strong suspicion that it’s not anatomically feasible – perhaps ladies who are capable could give us the benefit of their inside knowledge.
I began to wonder about this on hearing that Russia’s supreme leader may have secretly tied the knot with Alina Kabaeva, the itty bitty not-much-titty gymnast. Mr Pootikins has denied the rumour, but the smug look on his face suggests he’s been teaching her new floor exercises. She must have been good to distract him from maintaining his vice-like grip on the country’s political groin. I suppose there comes a time in a powerful man’s life when all he wants is a woman who’ll curl up on his lap and call him “Daddy”.
Since winning her gold medal in the 2004 Olympics, Miss Kabaeva has been competing vigorously for the title of Mother Russia’s Most Coquettish Daughter. There are supposedly striking pictures of her wearing nothing but a bearskin – hopefully she’ll progress to fox or beaver in due course. It seems to have got her noticed by the nation’s dark-suited political elite, suggesting the presence of a cunning Rasputin-like figure behind the scenes. She’ll obviously have to dump him if she and Vlad remain an item. The Russian premier is not the sort who’ll tolerate a mad monk sniffing around his mistress.
Alina is actually the kind of impish little woman who’d make the perfect pet for a gorilla. I’d keep her in a tree house of her own so she could hop outside and practice her beam exercises on the adjoining branch. It’s a spectacle that would drive the monkeys crazy with jealousy. In the evenings, I’d get her to change into an exquisite gown and take her to the safari guesthouse. A mystery woman goes down well with tourists, adding to the feverish intrigue of their visit. It would be interesting to see how far the men pushed their luck in the presence of a gorilla chaperone. Fear and lust are primal emotions which rarely compete in modern human societies. Perhaps she’d just fire them up for their wives after bedtime. The practical spouse is philosophical about her husband imagining a pert-bottomed gymnast while he’s grinding her into the mattress.
All things considered, it’s good to see Russia producing alluring female athletes rather than the steroid-pumped hermaphrodites of the Soviet era. In international relations, “soft power” means having female celebrities who’ll make the men of other nations gnash their teeth in frustration. Perhaps the Kremlin should set up a finishing school for these Tsarinas to further their potential for sex-kitten diplomacy. Not every foreign ambassador is louche enough to fall for the first belly dancer who winks at him with her navel. It would be essential, of course, to teach them to speak English in a Russian accent. If anything could be guaranteed to break Miss Kabaeva’s spell, it would be hearing a whiny transatlantic voice emanate from her slender throat.
Labels: Alina Kabaeva, doing the splits, Russian politics
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Pagan rights
I’m not sure what to think about the Vancouver man who was refused a job as a chauffeur because of his pagan religion. While members of faith-based communities often make dedicated employees, respect for the Highway Code is not a virtue endorsed by the Coven of the Goat. Yet on balance, I feel his complaint may be justified. I can’t see why praying to the Moon god – or his big-bosomed lactating priestess – would impair a man’s driving abilities. Everything should be fine as long as he keeps his eyes on the road and waits until the next service station before sipping the sacramental titty milk.
It seems he was denied a chauffeur’s permit because his particular sect practices sadomasochism. This would have made things awkward for his clients during a long journey. I know from experience that it’s very difficult to make small talk with a man who enjoys having his nipples clamped. One has to tip-toe through a minefield to avoid phrases such as “dripping hot wax” and “beg for mercy”. Although no human has ever dared suggest that I submit to the lash, quite a few have asked me to punish them in unspeakably kinky ways. I generally declined on the grounds that the enjoyment would have been entirely one-sided. You can’t please a gorilla by groaning and grimacing – not unless he’s caught you stealing his nuts.
I suppose that masochism proves you can acquire a taste for anything if you put your mind to it. I remember a female acrobat from my circus days who could give herself muscle cramps by twisting her feet. She claimed that doing it when her lover was bringing her to a climax gave her foot-orgasms. Apparently, the massive release of endorphins overwhelmed the pain centres of her brain, turning agony into ecstasy. I congratulated her on her achievement and suggested that she inform the editor of a medical journal. It’s not something I’d ever be tempted to try myself though. Pampering your feet with orgasms is not sound policy when you depend on them for rapid jungle manoeuvres. Far better to toughen them up by walking over sharp stones or squashing red ants.
As I see it, the main danger for the S&M movement is allowing the gadgets to take over. (Sean Connery said the same thing about the Bond movies, if you recall). The whip and handcuffs may be a nice theatrical touch, but few practitioners have any wish to encourage spectators. My advice to human couples trying to spice up their routine sex lives would be to experiment with biting and clawing. That’s how lions get in the mood for it, and they’re practically insatiable once they get started. If you must use an implement, keep it simple – a nice crisp thwack on the buttocks with a 12-inch wooden ruler should be enough to get the juices flowing.
Yet when all is said and done, living for sensory pleasure is a shallow ethos. As the character Pigsy discovered, the wanton pursuit of carnal gratification produces no lasting satisfaction, only endless craving and a troubled soul. You may as well inject yourself with narcotics. Those of you who wish to taste the true bliss of inner calm may join me in a group meditation session this Friday at 2200 hours, Eastern Congo Time. We may be thousands of miles apart, but those with the semi-divine preta-manger should feel my hairy energy engulf their ethereal essences. Together we shall glimpse Nirvana.
Jai Guru Devotchka .
Labels: chauffeur, meditation, Pagan, sadomasochism
Friday, April 18, 2008
A comic masterpiece
Have you ever been surprised that people are laughing their heads off at something you only find mildly amusing? I had that feeling the other day when I saw a music video starring the comedienne Sarah Silverman. The title of the song was “I’m fucking Matt Damon”, which is what Ms Silverman confessed to be doing with great frequency. To drive home the point, Mr Damon himself appears in a supporting role, fully endorsing her claims. No explicit evidence is presented, but it is implied that the song-and-dance routine is no more than an interlude in their rampant fornication.
Now I can see the funny side of a nice Jewish girl allowing herself to be repeatedly ravished by square-jawed thug like Matt Damon. It’s comedy on a par with the vicar’s wife running off with a night-club bouncer and discovering she enjoys being mounted like a farmyard animal. But I didn’t see why people were behaving as if it were the funniest thing since Oliver Hardy got surprised in bed by Ethel the gorilla. Or not until I’d done some background research into its genesis.
For I have since learned that the video is what is known as an “in-joke”. Ms Silverman, you see, is the girlfriend of another comedian called Jimmy Kimmy, who has his own TV show. This man Kimmy had repeatedly used Mr Damon as a butt for his quips, falsely announcing that he was due to appear as a star guest. The video made by Ms Silverman was played on Kimmy’s show as a surprise tribute, while actually being an ingenious retort to put the cheeky upstart in his place. It is rather as if Mr Damon were making the following public statement:
“Ho Kimmy! I have punished your insolence by seducing your mistress! Rest assured that you have been cuckolded more times than a bee pollinates a flower! Examine the flush on your lady’s cheeks, Kimmy, a beautification that your own feeble efforts were incapable of producing! How do you like them apples, Kimmy!”
Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I’m so interested in Sarah Silverman all of a sudden. No, I don’t have a crush on her, you silly people. The reason for my research into her activities is that the woman (like many before her) wants to hang out with my tribe. I got this e-mail from her a couple of days ago:
Dear Gorilla Bananas
Could I visit you guys in the jungle and get some pictures taken? People think I’m a hard-assed bitch for ripping on Britney’s kids, so being photographed with gorillas will show everyone I’m really a touchy-feely person who cares about wildlife and stuff.
Truly yours
Sarah Silverman
Having done my homework on La Silverman, I sent her the following reply:
Dear Sarah
I must admit that I’d never heard of you, but after googling your name I realised that you were indeed a talented and famous woman. Of course you would be welcome to visit us. But no camcorder please! You’re not going to make a video entitled “I’m fucking Gorilla Bananas”!
Yours affectionately
G. Bananas
P.S. The texture of your posterior is neither here nor there. We gorillas are very tolerant about that sort of thing.
I’m sure you’ll agree that I responded in a friendly manner while keeping my bases covered and my cards held tightly to my chest. You’ve got to be a very early bird to catch Gorilla Bananas’ worm!
Labels: Matt Damon, Oliver Hardy, Sarah Silverman
Monday, April 14, 2008
Planet of the Ape Masks
You’re probably wondering how I’m feeling about the news that Charlton Heston is cracking his whip in the great chariot race in the sky. “Sad and wistful” about sums it up. We apes admired the man hugely – “Lord Cheston of Harlton” as we respectfully called him. I never blamed him for the Planet of the Apes movies, which obviously had nothing to do with apes. They’re actually a macabre human fantasy about being reduced to the status of dumb beasts in a world ruled by surly characters who stole most of their political ideas from Mussolini. People who think I get any satisfaction from seeing humans getting kicked in the arse by the boot on the other foot are dead wrong. Those grotesques in funny masks are nothing like any apes I know, and I was rooting for Lord Cheston from start to finish.
Some of the “apes” are ridiculous enough to be funny. Top of the list is Dr Zaius, Archdeacon of Orang-ish Inquisition, who goes around accusing anyone who contradicts him of heresy. The silliest scenes are when Old Ginger Beard solemnly quotes proverbs from the Holy Simian Scripture, as revealed by Moses Melonhead, the Law-Giving Gibbon. May the Earth struck by a giant asteroid before an orang-utan with a chip on his shoulder gets to be Grand Poo-Bah.
I remember when a tour party of American couples tried to tease me about the movie. I responded to their jibes by staring at the biggest man among them and winking.
“I like the idea of a planet where apes can use humans as their sex slaves,” I said. “Women are too small and hairless for us gorillas – we like our concubines to have a little fur on their legs.”
I made a few smacking noises with my lips to reinforce the point.
“Hey, a lot guys shave their legs too!” protested the fellow.
“You don’t!” tittered his wife.
The discussion took a more interesting turn when someone brought up the question of Lord Cheston’s movie girlfriend. Both sexes agreed that this woman, whom Chuck named Nova, was a hottie of the chilli-hot variety. What they couldn’t agree on was the significance of her mute condition. The women thought it diminished her attractions, whereas the men begged to differ. The debate started getting quite heated, and in their desire for a resolution they asked me to cast the deciding vote.
This put me in an awkward position. Siding with the men would have been ungallant for a male gorilla. But if I’d thrown in my lot with the women, the men might have accused me of currying favour with their wives. This would have led to unpleasantness. No one accuses Gorilla Bananas of currying favour with human females for ulterior motives. When I eat curry, I do it because I like the taste, not because I’m trying to impress women. I would have been forced to demand a retraction or satisfaction by other means. It might have ended with me grabbing one of those cheeky yanks by his ankles and hoisting him upside down. Fortunately, I was struck by a flash of inspiration in the nick of time.
“Chuck would have found Nova more attractive,” I announced, “if she had spoken a language which he did not understand. A heterolingual couple sound sexy to each other even if one is talking about chestnuts while the other is discussing the price of eggs. As for the fun and games at bedtime, need I say more?”
Both genders chuckled in appreciation of my compromise, which was clearly the sort of judgement that would have caused King Solomon to do a lap of honour while blowing kisses to the Almighty. Another advantage, now that I think of it, is that so much effort would be expended on simple communication that there’d be no time left for bickering. There really might be something in this.
Labels: Charlton Heston, Dr Zaius, Nova, Planet of the Apes
