Friday, December 23, 2011
Christmas Carols
I arrive in London to spend Christmas with the noble Dr Whipsnade, benefactor of the worthy, guardian of the innocent and chastiser of the villainous. After taking supper with the doctor and his wife, I step outside to watch a band of humans singing Christian hymns. Their voices are earnest and tuneful, although rather affected for my taste. We gorillas prefer a more robust style of vocal expression that reaches the pelvis as well as the ear drums. This does not stop me from applauding their performance:
“Bravo!” I cry. “Wait here while I go inside to get something for you!”
I brush past the butler when he opens the door and return with a couple of crisp banknotes in my paw. I am about to hand them over when Dr Whipsnade emerges in his overcoat and grabs my forearm.
“Don’t do that, Bananas, they’re not licensed to collect for charity,” he says. “Jevons will bring them some mulled wine.”
The choir look disappointed. “We wouldn’t have minded a tip,” mutters one of them as I re-enter the mansion with cash in hand.
This incident illustrates one of the enduring features of an English Christmas: it’s the time of year when money is at the forefront of people’s minds. The first man who properly understood this was Charles Dickens, whose work is much celebrated in the festive season. A Christmas Carol, let no one forget, is a parable about a miser. I’ve seen it enacted so many times that I now hold revisionist views on it.
The story, you see, has a glaring moral defect: Scrooge was scared into turning over a new leaf by ghosts. The use of terror tactics to make a sinner repent is not the Christmas spirit. It seems obvious to me that what the old codger really needed was a woman. Instead of harassing him with spectres, Dickens should have given Nancy from Oliver Twist a supporting role as the Wench from Novels Past. If she had snuck into Scrooge’s bed at midnight, straddling him between her broad and luscious thighs, he would have definitely been a new man in the morning.
A consistent theme in all of Dickens’ work is that sex makes humans happy. Why else would Bob Cratchit be in such good cheer, in spite of all his woes? The size of his family suggests that servicing the missus was one of his favourite pastimes. The same is true of Dickens’ female characters. David Copperfield’s pretty young wife died with a smile on her face, which women don’t make a habit of doing unless they’ve been given a good seeing to. And no one was more miserable than Miss Havisham, the bitter old prune who renounced men after getting jilted on her wedding day.
After retiring to my bedroom, I look out of the window at the grand houses in this affluent neighbourhood of London, and wonder how much shagging is going on. Not much, judging by the long faces I saw moping around in the morning. I blame Dickens. People are so preoccupied with money and presents that their libidos have turned Scrooge-like. They ought to remember the event that Christmas celebrates: the first and only time that God had sex with a woman.
Gorilla Bananas wishes his readers a Merry Christmas.
Labels: Carol singers, Christmas shagging, Dickens, money, Scrooge
Monday, December 19, 2011
Polar bear dispute
A lot of ignorant people are calling David Attenborough a hoaxer for using footage of zoo-dwelling polar bears in his latest nature programme. I bet these foolish hypocrites have enjoyed countless action movies in which stuntmen pretend to be Bruce Willis or Daniel Craig. What D.A. did was far more justified because: (i) there are no A-list actors in the polar bear community and (ii) all polar bears look the same to humans. Television viewers who want to see close-ups of real wild polar bears should piss off to the North Pole with a pair of binoculars.
I have to be honest and declare a personal interest here. D.A. is a personal friend who has often asked me about gorilla etiquette. He once hired me as a consultant for a film shoot in the Congo.
“Is it OK if I grunt and make eye-contact with the females?” he asked.
“Not advisable with wild females, Davy,” I said. “They might think you were making a pass at them and end up sitting on your face. I suggest you shoot the scene at London Zoo. The female gorillas there are used to men flirting with them and know it’s just pussy-teasing.”
Davy did as I suggested, and the BBC obtained some brilliant footage of him chatting up a female gorilla as she pouted and fluttered her eyelids. One of the most enthralling scenes ever filmed in a natural history show.
Humans often ask me whether I approve of wildlife documentaries. It’s the sort of question that makes me want to lie on my back and scratch my chin with my toes. Like many things in life, they have their pros and cons. A positive feature is that the sex they contain is suitable for family audiences. Because let’s face it, most human parents are far too embarrassed to tell their children how babies are made. It’s much easier to let them watch animals do it and put two-and-two together.
This is why documentary-makers should exercise discretion in the species they select for their hard-core scenes. Definitely not baboons. After watching them mate, boys might think that having sex involves drilling away for 10 seconds like a woodpecker and then running off to boast about it to their buddies. Elephants are not advisable either. The size and shape of a bull elephant’s appendage makes me clench my anus, so heaven knows how innocent girls would react.
So much for the sex, but what about the violence? In my view, it gives modern humans the same kind of kicks that the Roman amphitheatre used to provide. Why are lions the most popular wildlife attraction? Because people want to see them chase down a zebra and bite chunks out of it. As a vegetarian gorilla, I find it pretty sickening, but at least lions don’t combine their violence with sex, like in a Tarentino movie. Can anyone explain why the black crime baron got raped by the white gimp-handler in Pulp Fiction? If that’s entertainment, I’m a duck-billed platypus.
Labels: David Attenborough, hard-core action, lions, polar bears, Pulp Fiction
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Mad rogues and Chinamen
Scientists from two European universities have postulated that the human brain can’t get any cleverer without driving its owner nuts. Too much grey matter in the skull, they say, overloads the emotional circuits and produces a personality that veers between the obsessive and the diabolical. That’s why modern humans are no smarter, on average, than Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble.
This theory clearly has grains of truth. All the super-villains James Bond had to deal with were fiendishly intelligent and mad as hatters. Take Goldfinger, for example. He had 007 just where he wanted him, shackled to a worktop with his legs apart and a laser beam closing in on his groin. Everyone thought Bond’s testicles were toast, but Goldfinger spared him at the last minute and revealed the details of his insidious master-plan. He then allowed Bond to connive with his dolly-birds and turn the tables on him, to the point where he got sucked out of his own aircraft. The fat git was plainly bonkers.
When I mentioned this scientific conjecture to the manager of the safari camp, he made the following sceptical observation:
“If it’s really true, how come clever races like the Chinese don’t have an unusually high proportion of evil geniuses?”
He had a point, but not an unanswerable one.
“Obviously, there are cultural factors at play,” I said. “The Chinese are into feng shui and yoga, which bring about a natural balance between the yin and yang. If you discipline your mind with these oriental techniques, it’s not so easy to go off your rocker.”
“I don’t believe in all that stuff,” he replied. “The Chinese have their own unique brand of madness. Just look at Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. You don’t make noises and faces like that if you’re sound of mind.”
This inspired me to do my own research on the Mad Chinaman syndrome. The first case that caught my eye involves a man who does headstands on a metal spike. His name is Li Xin and he’s a former kung fu master who evidently got bored of giving people flying kicks. He then spent years perfecting his new stunt, which created an abominable hole at the top of his skull. His behaviour seems amazingly barmy on the face of it, but then I noticed that each headstand only lasts for ten seconds. This suggests it’s a party trick rather than a lifestyle choice, and he’s probably quite normal when he’s not upside down. Could there be health benefits too? I wouldn’t rule it out.
Then I came across a young fellow called Peter Chao, who lives in Vancouver and posts video clips of himself on You Tube. Chao is clearly very angry about a lot of things, but is he technically insane? I don’t think the ranting alone is sufficient evidence. However, he does have a habit of taking his shirt off for no reason, revealing the most hairless chest I’ve ever seen on a male primate. If that isn’t a sign of lunacy, I don’t know what is.
Labels: Chinamen, Goldfinger, human brain, madness
Friday, December 09, 2011
The Hugging Saint
A correspondent has sent me an intriguing news story about an elderly Indian woman who goes around the world hugging people. Amma, the Divine Mother, offers her open-armed blessing to all who queue to meet her. On a good day she can deliver 200 hugs per hour, which is quicker than a cattle rancher can geld and brand his herd. My females hooted with laughter when I told them about her.
“Why don’t those fools come to us?” they jeered. “Our hugs squeeze parts that old women cannot reach!”
“Don’t be so cocksure,” I retorted. “Her embraces have a spiritual quality that yours lack, which is why she is revered as a saint by her followers. All you can do is grope and crush. Don’t forget what happened to that American footballer you tried to get friendly with.”
“He was a pussy!” they barked contemptuously, before wandering off to look for a baboon to molest.
Hugging etiquette in human societies is a fascinating subject. There are so many ambivalent situations where no one is quite sure whether a hug is appropriate. Consider the question of man-on-man hugging. In Latin countries, it is perfectly normal for buddies to greet each other in that fashion, as long as a safe air corridor is maintained between the trousers. But Anglo-Saxon men are only supposed to do it if they’re gay or work in show business. Women, of course, can cuddle like koalas in any part of the world. No one thinks it's foreplay unless there's bumping and grinding going on.
Another interesting grey area is whether pre-pubescent boys appreciate being hugged by women. It seems to depend on the context. My old circus chum, Smacker Ramrod, was sent to an English boarding school at the age of 8. He told me that being hugged by Matron was one of the few consolations of a miserable incarceration.
“She saw it as her duty to comfort homesick boys and would cuddle the ones who weren’t too grubby or obnoxious,” he explained. “Fortunately, I passed the test.”
“How lucky for you, Smacker,” I remarked. “But surely her maternal snuggles ceased when you were no longer a new boy. She wouldn’t believe you were permanently homesick, would she?”
“Yeah, but I came up with other excuses,” he said. “I once got my sister to write me a letter saying the dog had died. That worked like a charm.”
“Good heavens, Smacker!” I exclaimed. “Were it not for the pre-existing canine theme, I would call you a sly dog! Did you not suffer from pangs of guilt in procuring Matron’s motherly embrace through deception?”
“Not really,” he said. “It didn’t do her any harm and it did me a lot of good. Once you get used to burying your face in a woman’s bosom, you do whatever you have to to make it happen again.”
I offered no objection to this pragmatic ethical formula. When a willing bosom makes contact with a willing face, the why’s and the wherefore’s are of minor importance.
Labels: female gorillas, Hugging, maternal bust, sly dog
Monday, December 05, 2011
Lady Gaga's secret
Lady Gaga has revealed the secret of her “perfect skin”. Apparently, her alabaster complexion is maintained through lots of orgasms and spinach. I share this information with the manager of the safari camp, who hopes to entice La Gaga over here for a holiday.
“Her spinach-orgasm therapy wouldn’t protect her skin from the mosquitoes,” I remark. “You’ll have to warn her if she visits.”
“Wouldn’t the sound of her orgasms scare off the mozzies?” asks the manager facetiously.
“Indeed not,” I reply. “Only female mosquitoes bite, and they wouldn’t be intimidated by her caterwauling. The female of the species instinctively knows when a creature of the same gender is getting herself off.”
“In that case you’ll have to give her some of your natural jungle ointment,” says the manager with a smirk.
“She’ll have to pay for it,” I insist. “Jungle skin cream doesn’t grow on trees, and she could easily afford the full retail price.”
“Aren’t you worried she might think you’re a tight-fisted wanker?” guffaws the manager before sauntering off. I suppose he thinks he made a joke of some variety.
As well as discussing her beauty secrets, Gaga explained why her love affairs have been short-lived and turbulent. It seems the artistic types she attracts soon grow envious of her musical talent:
If I go to the piano and write a quick song and play it back, they are angry with how fast and effortless it is. That's who I am, and I don't apologise for it.
I believe Mozart had similar problems, but Gaga is kidding herself if she thinks it’s why her boyfriends keep throwing her out of bed. Methinks the lady doth boast too much. The real reason for her break-ups might have something to do with her annoying little habits, like having 37 orgasms a day to avoid getting zits. And how do we know her skin is really so wonderful beneath the layers of make-up she puts on? I suspect her true complexion is like that of the Milky Bar Kid – pale and creamy, but lacking in lustre.
Now, the Scandinavians claim that the best thing for the skin is a sauna. I once got invited to one in Sweden, by a couple of flaxen-haired girls who had watched me perform in the circus:
“Please join us, GB!” they begged. “It will open up your pores and flush out the toxins. We will blow dry you afterwards if you like.”
I thought it best to decline tactfully: “A most generous offer, ladies, but sweating is for the hairless. We gorillas flush out our toxins in other ways.”
The girls were bitterly disappointed, and in truth I could have easily endured a sauna, which is not so different from the climate of a tropical rain forest. My real fear, of course, was wagging tongues. A gorilla should never get into a cabin with naked women unless there are witnesses who will testify to the absence of hanky-panky. That idiot King Kong has given us enough bad publicity.
Labels: hanky-panky, Lady Gaga, Mozart, perfect skin, sauna
